


Steel Horses

by ElCapitan18



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bikers, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Bikers, Blood and Gore, Cigarettes, Crimes & Criminals, Drugs, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, M/M, Modern Era, Multi, Organized Crime, Other, References to Drugs, Slow Burn, Slow To Update, Smoking, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 18:20:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 36,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21632884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElCapitan18/pseuds/ElCapitan18
Summary: Valo-Kas M.C. is not a 1% motorcycle club. The security work that they do is above board, legal and licensed, squeaky f*cking clean. What their clients get up to, however, is none of their business. And their strict "look the other way, ask no questions" policy is what keeps them in business. That is until a new Tevinter client puts the MC in federal cross hairs. Ozet Adaar wants to protect his sister and save his club, but when a Tevinter ambassador knocks him on his ass his heart is pulled in yet another direction and there's nothing more terrifying than knowing that he can't protect them all. His twin, Ozena, might consider herself "barely a mage" but that's still enough to damn her if the wrong people find her out. Federal scrutiny is the last thing they need. Maker only knows if they can shake it with their lives in tact.
Relationships: Alistair (Dragon Age) & Original Female Character(s), Cullen Rutherford/Original Character(s), Female Adaar/Cullen Rutherford, Fenris/Male Hawke, Josephine Montilyet/Cassandra Pentaghast, Male Adaar/Dorian Pavus, Mia Rutherford/Rylen
Comments: 26
Kudos: 14





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place in Modern Day Thedas. For the most part, everything is the same, just in a modern setting. I will try to include as much of the DA:I cast and content as I can, but won't force anything to fit that doesn't. Something to note - half elves have ears that range from barely pointed to basically elf ears, and half-vashoth are mostly human sized with smaller horns. Everything else we can discover along the way.
> 
> As I'm writing this story for fun, I'm not sure how often I'll be able to update, so just bear that in mind before committing to it and its characters. I hope you enjoy it all the same and, remember, kudos and comments are a writer's lifeblood.

It wasn’t the harsh shove to his shoulder that knocked Zet down, but the kick to the back of his knee that went along with it. He caught himself on his hands and glowered back at the door as it slammed shut behind him, chest rising and falling at a furious tempo as he grit his teeth and reined in his anger. If there was ever a time to keep his cool, it was now. 

“Amatus.”

Focus snapping away from the door, panic flash froze his blood. There was a lone figure seated under the low hanging phosphorus bulb, which had been sent swinging by the slammed door and was now making the room’s shadows dance. Clothes better suited to an art journal than a fashion magazine were rumpled and torn. He looked like he’d been yanked from a runway and dragged behind a truck going 50 down inner city backroads.

“Dorian.” He scrambled onto his feet and launched himself the two yards between them, falling on his knees in front of the russet skinned human and desperately staring up at his down turned face. Anger like he’d never felt before burned too cold to melt the ice crystalized in his veins. It fogged his mind, the chilled mist of dry ice fuming dangerously in his chest.

Zet lifted his hand to Dorian’s face but hesitated before touching him. His hand hovered centimeters from the crimson gloss of his skin, steady despite the guilt clawing his chest open. On a growl he swore, “I’m going to kill every last one of them.”

They’d hurt him, his beautiful Vint, they’d dared to put a fucking hand on him. His face was ballooned and bloody, beaten so badly that his right eye was swollen almost completely shut. The blade straight line of his nose was bent. Sinfully soft lips --that Zet had taken to trailing calloused fingertips over-- were now split, fat despite the blood covering his whole face so thickly his neck and shirt were drenched in it. Soaked crimson from the collar of his shirt down his chest, blood had even dripped onto his pant legs.

It flowed from the cut on his brow and trailed down his temple to blend with the gash on his cheek. More blood poured from his broken nose, joining the trickle from his split lip. Blood dripped along his jaw and down his neck in a slick scarlet that matched the red closing around Zet’s vision. When they got out of this room someone was going to answer for this. Someone was going to pay for hurting him.

Grunting, Dorian lifted his head just high enough to meet Zet’s gaze. He stared at him with fervent grey eyes and bit out a pained, “You came.”

“Of course I came,” replied Zet on an incredulous scoff. He crawled closer, pushing himself between Dorian’s spread knees. He reached up to his face again, wanting so badly to cup the man’s cheek in his hand, but reluctant to hurt him any more than he’d already been. Instead Zet pushed the damp clumps of Dorian’s hair away from his face and tucked it behind his ear, softly murmuring, “You didn’t actually think that I wouldn’t come for you, did you?”

Dorian leaned his face into Zet’s hand as it lingered near his ear, wincing only slightly as he nuzzled into his palm, eyes shut, breath shuttering. “I hoped you weren’t fool enough to walk knowingly into a trap.”

He forced a weak smile onto his mouth. “Come on, babe, you know me better than that.” The pained grimace that followed Dorain’s scoff wiped the small smirk from his mouth. Still too reluctant to hurt him to touch him the way he wanted to, all he could do in that moment was hold Dorian’s cheek in his palm and stare at him ruefully. “You’re only here because of me,” was Zet’s quiet rebuke, each word drenched with more guilt than Dorian’s shirt was with blood. 

He was supposed to protect the people that he loved. How could he had let things get so out of control?

He turned his face in Zet’s hand and pressed a kiss to the center of his palm, holding his breath until the pain of it passed. “I knew what you were when this started, Amatus, and I fell in love with you anyway.”

Not at all liking the finality of Dorian’s tone, the “thanks for the good times” he could feel waiting in the wings, Zet pushed off from his knees and rounded the chair that they’d propped him up on. Ears too full of his heartbeat for him to hear his own thoughts, he inspected the zip ties securing Dorian’s wrists behind his back.

In that second he wished he was more like his sister. Ozena would know what to say to deflect the semi-fatalistic tension coming off of Dorian in waves. She’d have said something like, ‘I warned you you would,’ or ‘yet, supposedly, I’m the fool.’ In the face of Dorian beaten bloody, tied to a chair, and disconnected from his magic, Zet was too caught up in his urgency to bother with sass. They didn’t have a lot of time, and he needed to get Dorian out of here more than he needed to break the tension.

“The others are coming,” he muttered under his breath as he pulled at the sturdy nylon material securing Dorian’s wrists together, testing their give. Confirming that there wasn’t much, he removed his keys from his pants pocket and searched the keyring for the folding knife hidden within the glinting metal pieces. 

“Here I thought you were the calvary.”

The zip ties snapped with a little effort and a grunted, “I’m the distraction.” He thumbed the knife back into place then shoved his keys into his pocket.

“Don’t I know it.” Dorian moved his arms in front of him and rubbed at his wrists. He pushed himself out of the chair with a groan only for his knees to buckle under his weight. 

Zet stepped in in an instant, his hand grasping firmly at Dorian’s elbow and holding his weight as the mage found his footing. He watched, guilt-ridden, as Dorian hissed and held his ribs. Voice a low timbre that was more vibration than sound, he swore, “I’m going to get you out of here.”

Blinking the blood from his eyes, Dorian turned his gaze up at Zet and tried for that smirk that had once come so easily to him. “Don’t you mean ‘us’, Amatus?”

He stared into those grey eyes for a long, silent moment.  _ No _ . The confession caught in his throat and choked him. Zet wasn’t likely to make it out of this alive and, so long as Dorian and Ozena survived the night, he was okay with that. Before he could say as much to the mage reading the truth in his face as clearly as if he were saying it out loud, the door to the room opened. The darkness on the other side was broken by a red glow before his eyes could adjust. But it didn’t matter. He knew what he was facing, and he knew he’d face worse if it meant saving the man he loved. 

He reached blindly for Dorian’s hand, needing the comfort more than he did his next breath. “Stay close,” he muttered when he meant to say, “I love you.” 


	2. Kingsway's End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: So, after referencing the WIKI I realized that Valo-Kas already has a complete list of members, and that Shokrakar is actually female (oops, that's what I get for only playing Lavellan). I retconned her gender (which I prefer as female anyway so, hey, that works out) and will probably find a way to work in the original Valo-Kas crew. But, as I'm attached to the MC I have created, Valo-Kas is staying as it is presently. 
> 
> Thank you for reading and also understanding <3

###  **Ozena Adaar**

_Six months earlier…_

“Wait, I’m not done.”

River’s sigh was long suffering as they leafed back a page and held the book open with their thumb. She could hear the unspoken, _Maker’s breath_ , in their silence. 

Ozena supposed she couldn’t blame them. Things were just starting to get steamy and she was slowing down their pace to The Good Part with her slow and steady wins the race reading speed. She liked to savor the smut, sue her. 

She was sure that River’s sigh had nothing to do with how she’d climbed onto the back of the half elf’s bike, draped herself onto their back, propped her chin on their shoulder, and started reading along; out loud at first, until things had started to get good, then annoying River had taken a backseat to the story they were reading. She’d made jokes before when she’d read the title, but Ozena was mature enough to admit when she was wrong. As it turned out Hard in Hightown was a page turner. 

No, her complete disregard for personal space had nothing to do with River’s silent, _not-at-all-vocal-but-felt-in-spirit_ grumbling. After almost a decade and a half of riding together, they knew that a little Big Spoon action was the least of Ozena’s mindless affections. This was nothing. It got worse if the mood was right and all parties were willing. 

If she knew River --and after all this time she liked to think that she did-- they just wanted to finish this chapter before Shokrakar and Zet emerged from the clubhouse and led the way to their next paycheck. Ozena was slowing them down. 

The kiss she pressed to their shoulder, and the gentle squeeze of her arms around their waist, was meant as an apology. When she lifted her mouth from the smooth, cool leather of River’s cut, she murmured, “Okay, next page,” and tried to keep up with their lightning fast reading speed.

Valo-Kas had an escort job tonight, the extent of which was mostly to look tough and dissuade any funny business with a head count. It was easy shit, routine shit, business as usual. With four horned giants --three of which were the size of brick shit-houses, herself included-- and a motley assortment of tough as shit bad asses, all armed to the teeth and decked out in matching leather cuts, most people with good sense knew better than to try anything. Everyone else learned that lesson pretty quickly. 60% of the time they got paid to make an appearance. The other 40% was when they actually got to have some fun. 

According to Shokrakar, fun wasn’t on tonight’s itinerary. Their client just wanted a show of force and thought it’d be enough to keep things civil. But there was a saying about the Maker’s attitude on mortals making plans. They’d be ready for anything regardless of how it went down. 

A sense of foreboding made Ozena hold River tighter, an ominous uncertainty that niggled at the back of her neck and the back of her mind. It felt like that moment of near realization. The fraction of a second just before you were actively aware that you were about to fall, an instant of knowing and not knowing, the glide before the tumble. 

Something was going to happen tonight. Good or bad, she had no way of knowing, but her instincts were coiled tight, springloaded to meet whatever the night had in store. 

Her gaze lifted from the page she hadn’t been reading, not out of boredom, but because the tightness in her gut was making it hard to concentrate on the words. She looked around at the other members of Valo-Kas, all milling about, waiting for their President and VP to give them the order to mount up and ride out. A bit of familial warmth chased away the apprehension that had started to cool her blood. These were her people, her brothers and sisters. She’d die for any one of them without a second thought. They were her club, which was more than family, more binding than blood, though Ozet would always be her number one and anyone who accused her of playing favorites was right. 

Ozet was everyone’s favorite. Any claim to the contrary was a fucking lie. 

They were a small MC compared to others around Ferelden and the Free Marches, boasting a total of nine members in all. Val-Kas was the Mother Charter, the Original club, a ragtag group of ex-cons and former military that felt no need to franchise their brand and spread across the map like an STD at a music festival. Small circles were easier to maintain. Besides, she’d bet on her mismatched nine against any club with the call sheet in the dozens. 

There was chill, unflappable River, with their pinstraight, midnight black hair and olive skin. Who leaned so heavily on the elven helf of their heritage that their body was as genderless as their identity. Their build was lean and accompanied by diamond sharp, angular features. Heavy lidded, almond shaped eyes sat under thick, sculpted eyebrows and between a wide nose that gave them the appearance of a cat. They were willowy and agile, and the only thing human about them was their height. 

They were still shorter than Ozena, but most humans were, even the tall ones. 

Ashir, the MC’s Sergeant at Arms, was bulky for an elf. Full elf, not a half blood like River and Eema --technically Nys, too. The wild waves of his dark brown hair was almost always secured into a messy top knot that --without fail-- looked like one wrong move would snap the hair tie and loose his glorious mane. His Dalish heritage was in his ink, the intricate black lines that covered his bronzy terracotta surface all the way from his brow to his knuckles, even onto this feet. Quick as most were to dismiss the Dalish, she’d seen his prowess in combat outstrip trained soldiers. He’d earned that Sergeant patch several times over. 

Their Road Captain, Devlon, was the club’s lone dwarf. His ash blond hair was as long as it was thick, ritualistically braided in intricate ropes, ornamented with gold rings and beads. They made them tough in Orzammar, and Dev was the cream of the military crop. He didn’t like to talk about what brought him topside, and she knew better than to ask. Some walls took longer than others to scale, and then there were those too thick and too tall for even time to make a difference. 

Down the line of motorcycles, Eema and Nysris were both lounging on their bikes, propped onto the seats sidesaddle as one thumbed through their phone and the other amused herself by folding bits of paper and flicking the pieces at the field goal of Vercer’s lifted hands. They were both half elves but, unlike Eema, Nys’ other half was Tal Vashoth. They were night and day in a sense that was a stone’s throw away from literal. 

Where Eema was the warm golds of a cloudless summer day, Nysris was as dark as an overcast night. The vashoth influence on her genes manifested first in her horns, but also in her black skin. Not umber or plum, black like obsidian, onyx, or the vast infinity between stars. When they opened their mouths to speak the real surprise was that, of the two, Nys’ upbeat personality was the one that shone bright as the sun. Eema was quiet and reticent, with a dark sense of humor that took everyone with a clear line of sight by surprise every single time. 

Vercer was Valo-Kas’ only human and newest patched member. Sponsored by Nys, who’d been impressed by his performance in a bar fight, they’d only just voted him in as a fully patched member last night. This was the first job he’d work with a top and bottom rocker instead of the Prospect patch he’d worn for the last year. By the twinkle in his baby blues, the man was thrilled and his excitement was contagious. 

The MC was an outlaw’s trail mix, but they were family and she wouldn’t trade any last one of them for anything. 

Before she could berate herself for being a sap, the clubhouse’s door kicked open and their two unaccounted for members finally emerged from within. Shokrakar was big for a femal, even by Tal Vashoth standards, with a commanding mein that made the President patch on her chest all but obsolete. With her height and build, the intimidating size of her horns, and the facial scars, there was no question that she was the woman in charge. 

Zet also lived and breathed his Vice President patch. He was taller than Shok by only a few inches, wider and bulkier, though significantly less grizzled. His comparable youth was in his musculature, in the well defined, bulging ropes of muscle that hadn’t been sandblasted by time. He had the same dark, coal ash complexion that she did, and also kept his cascading sheets of silver hair nearly as long. He and Shok would have made anything other than their power cruisers look like crotch rockets. 

As they approached, Ozena kissed River’s cheek before breaking the circle of her arms from around their waist and lifting her leg over the back of their bike. She moved to the next bike over, where she was parked just beside them, and leaned back in her seat to wait for the club’s officers to lead the charge. 

“Mount up, you lazy shits,” said Shokrakar as she walked down the line of bikes to where hers was parked at the end. A wink was aimed at Ozena as she passed her. “We’ve got a job to do.”

Zet, who was close on Shok’s heels, his bike in the spot beside the president’s, gave her a familiar look as he sauntered by. There was a wordless, _stay close to me_ , in the violet rings of his eyes. Her replying nod was imperceptible and Ozena wasn’t sure if she should be reassured by the silent request. Of course she could take care of herself but, that it was made at all meant that he felt it too; that ominous _something_ that made her skin feel tight. Maybe it was just another twin thing. Whatever the reason, she wasn’t going to let him out of her sight tonight. 

The raucous roar of engines filled the night as, one after the other, their bikes came alive. Shok pushed off first, rolling toward the gated exit as the others followed suit, falling into formation behind her once they hit the street. 

There was a refreshing chill in the air and she breathed in deeply. On nights like tonight it was easy to imagine herself riding into forever, not a worry to her name so long as the road stretched on, but then she glanced around at her club, at her family, and the fantasy turned sour. There was no forever without them, and jobs like the one they were riding towards now was what kept them going. They’d be fine. Just like they always were. 

* * *

###  **Ozet Adaar**

The drive from their clubhouse on the outskirts of Amaranthine wasn’t far from the shipping yard in Seagrave, the location of the client’s meetup. As escort and entourage, they would catch up with the client on the way then accompany them to their meeting, where they were expected to mean mug their associate into rethinking any poorly put together plans involving a forceful renege of any previously established agreements. The arrangement raised some questions that they were paid not to ask. Though that didn’t stop his interest from being piqued. 

He didn’t know much about the client. Next to nothing, actually. Shokrakar had done the coordinating and they’d done enough jobs like this one that Zet hadn’t minded letting the old crone do her thing. This was their bread and butter, routine, business as usual bullshit. Valo-Kas was a well oiled machine and could do this hogtied, blind folded, and swinging from a tree like a piñata. He had the utmost faith in his club. So then why was his stomach so tight his abs hurt like he’d spent the last two hours braced for a punch to the gut?

This was one of those times he wished that Shok would revisit their ‘ask no questions’ policy. Capable as they were, there were things they couldn't prepare for if they went into it blind. They’d survived this long because they were tough as shit, crafty as hell, and had some higher power looking out for them. But their luck was finite. Someday it was going to run out. 

He gripped the handlebars tighter and stopped himself from looking over his shoulder to where Zen was riding. If he had to pick a night to scrape the dredges of their Good Luck Barrel, it’d be the night they did a job for some Vint high roller cruising through town looking for muscle. They’d been hired because the client had no friends, no connections this side of the Waking Sea, and looking weak was how out of town big shots ended up floating onto shore with a bullet hole between their eyes and the back of their head blown off. 

Deductive reasoning and over a decade in The Life made it easy to determine what this meeting was about. If their client had no friends then they had to make some. This was more than a business deal. It was a date, a courtship. Their client was out to woo and the question he wouldn't be asking was: what for?

Zet was trying not to let preparedness turn into paranoia. As VP his job was to think ahead, picture all the possibilities, and prepare for them accordingly. It was a fine line to walk, to not succumb to the anxiety that one misstep could end with members dead or arrested, and the club torn apart. 

They’d done this before. Sometimes shit went sideways. It was part of the job and part of the paycheck. If that was the case this go around they’d handle it like all the times before: teeth bared, guns raised, and hell bent on taking as many fuckers down with them before karma did her thing. 

His sigh was resolute, determined, and the breath that followed as fortified by the night’s cold air. They rode up on a luxury SUV and he recognized the plates. He and Shokrakar shared a look before he nodded and raised a hand to signal the others. Valo-Kas flowed around the vehicle and lined up in front of it. Their headlights and roaring engines guided the way to Seagrave. 

There wasn’t much traffic on the roads this late at night, expediting the drive into the privatized port and shipping yard. The procession drove deeper into the fenced area, between the rusted patchwork of stacked shipping containers, toward the docks. When the SUV flashed its high beams they slowed to a stop. Kickstands were toed out, engines cut, and the few helmets removed as he and Shok both unstradled their bikes. 

The others followed suit but stayed behind as he and their president went to officially greet their client. As they strode toward the SUV a tall, well dressed and groomed elf stepped out of the driver's seat. He started for the back door without acknowledging either of them before pulling it open and offering the person inside his hand. An eyebrow cocked when he noticed slender, jewel covered fingers slip into his extended palm. 

The sharp click of stilettos on pavement were followed by the reveal of a tall, slender, human woman with dark, russet skin, black hair twisted into an elegant bun, and a sleek, black dress with a harsh, sharp, angled design. She smoothed a manicured hand over her dress as cold, dark eyes assessed their approach. Her gaze was guarded, shrewd, ink blots that dressed them down with a single sweep. Face and features as round as hears might have been gentle on anyone else, but she had the indomitable severity of a businesswoman that specialized in the less than legal. Small as she was by comparison to him and Shokrakar, her presence was strangely commanding. 

This was clearly a woman who dealt with their “kind” often. 

Glancing between them, her eyes landed on the older Tal Vashoth and she extended a hand in her direction. “You must be Shokrakar, President of Valo-Kas.” her accent had a melodic elegance to it, the chime of an expensive education. 

Her grip swallowed her hand whole. With a jerk of her chin she motioned her attention toward him. “And this is my VP, Ozet.” When their hands broke apart the woman offered it to him, smile too cold to be pleasant. 

He gave her hand a firm shake anyway, well accustomed to getting greeted with both distrust and distaste right off the bat. Sometimes their clients resented them for the same reasons they hired them in the first place. They were big, hulking, horned bikers that looked more likely to take a lead pipe to your kneecaps than to watch your back. That aethstetic was part of the deal. It was what she was paying them for. By the sharp edge to her stare, he was guessing that she was loathe to acknowledge that fact. 

“My name is Livia Herathinos,” she said, turning on her heel with a look toward her elf driver, a wordless command that had him moving with her toward the back of the vehicle. Without looking back at them, she explained, “All that I require of your club tonight is its presence. Of the both of you, I might request a touch more.”

The driver popped the trunk open and, as they followed her to the SUV’s back bumper, he began to unload some reinforced cases. They were wide and thick, built to survive a beating. One was handed off to each of them and Zet was surprised by its weight. 

As the cases were distributed, Livia explained, “I ask that you accompany me into the meeting. All this requires of you is to stay close behind me and bring the cases when I signal for them. There will be no need for you to say or do anything beyond stand there and look menacing.”

Shok huffed an amused breath and considered the case in her hand. “You want us to carry your bags.”

“If you think you can manage it.”

The laugh faded from her expression and, for several tense heartbeats, she and Livia just stared at each other. It was Shok that backed down first, grunting dispassionately, not because she was intimidated by her but because carrying bags was part of the job. She was a Vint and obviously came from money, maybe even from some influential family too far north from here for them to care, this was just how their kind treated those they deemed beneath them. It wasn’t personal and, so long as she paid, it didn’t fucking matter. 

He and Shokrakar shared another look. At Zet’s raised eyebrow the older female refocused on Livia and nodded for her to lead the way. Her replying nod was satisfied with what she interpreted as submission. She gave her driver a meaningful glance and he shut the trunk and took the space directly behind her as she led them toward the docks. 

Driver and bodyguard. Zet had to wonder if Slave was his actual job description. By the way she was keeping him close, he was guessing yes. That was the way of the Tevinter Elite. 

After signalling for the other members to fall in line with them, the group strode unhurriedly toward the docks, where the crash of hightide thundered in the night. There was a small group of three waiting for them. A pale human man with two others behind him. Zet didn’t recognize any of them, and couldn't see any identifying colors under their shirt collars or exposed skin. Behind him, Valo-Kas fanned out. He wanted to glance back at Nys and Zen and order them to check the perimeter, but they were too close to Livia’s associate for him to take his eyes off of them. He and Shok were supposed to be her growling, drooling mabari hounds. If he looked away it broke the illusion that he was more than happy to kill for her and just as prepared to die for her, too. So he kept his eyes forward and hoped that his twin and Nys knew enough to do a quick check their environs.

The human man at point spoke over the churning ocean’s din with a rough, “Do you have it?” 

Livia motioned for him and Shokrakar to step forward. Once they were close, she turned her back on the humans and approached them one at a time, opening each of their cases to reveal military grade weaponry fitted into the shaped foam interior. When she stepped away it was with an inviting wave. The human at point looked back at his companions before stepping forward to inspect the guns. 

As he removed a rifle, Livia explained, “Today I’ve brought you just a taste of what we have in stock. What you’re holding there is a 7.62 mm enhanced battle rifle. You’ll find a M240L machine gun in the second case.” They watched as the man tested the weight of it, lifted the rifle’s butt to his shoulder, pointed the barrel toward a shipping container and stared down the sights. As he tested the weapon, she explained, “We also have a selection of AKs and semi automatic pistols, depending on demand.”

Lifting his face from the weapon, he grinned like a kid on Wintersend. “May I,” he asked, looking toward the provided ammunition.

Her smile was polite as she gestured toward the case in Zet’s hand. “By all means.”

He picked the magazine out of the case and slammed it into place. Grinning back at his men he aimed again at the shipping container and squeezed the trigger. The thunder of round after round firing off at a lightning fast pace was joined by the flash at the end of the rifle’s barrel. The man laughed before doing another sweep at the container, tearing through the metal like a knife through warm butter. He lowered the gun and turned to Livia, excitement in his eyes. 

“Let’s talk numbers,” he said, and before another word could come out of either of them, the thunder of even more gunshots filled the night.


	3. Shit, Meet Fan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains graphic depictions of violence. Reader discretion is advised.

###  **Ozena**

Pulling her attention from Zet’s back, she left her twin to his confident forward march and focused on the shipping containers stacked like building blocks around them. As the MC strode toward the waiting humans, Ozena did a mental rollcall of the heat she was packing. The nervous energy that had been cycling through sailor knots with her intestines now had the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end, too. The rusted jumbo blocks were piled high, a towering mazework of mismatched storage units forgotten and left to rot on Seagrave’s restless coast. Salty sea air was winning the fight against the metal containers, devouring them slowly. 

Her passing curiosity on the contents of all these shipping units was an afterthought, irrelevant. Ozena’s only and immediate concern had to do with their surroundings and the blaring warning bells of her instincts on edge. She had the sense that they were being watched by more than the humans anticipating their arrival. 

When Ashir caught her gaze and dipped his chin, Ozena was already moving, ready for the wordless command and eager to act on it. She peeled away from Valo-Kas to check the perimeter, the east most containers her responsibility while Nysris investigated the west. An odd choice if only her officer’s patch was considered. But almost everything Ozena knew about weapon handling and close quarter combat she’d learned from the half-vashoth. Nys was the club’s treasurer, but she could have been Sergeant just as easily. Her training was as extensive as Ash’s. Unlike Ozena, who’d picked up everything she knew from the club’s other members. 

She removed the 9mil from the holster under her cut and the hunting knife from the sheath strapped to her thigh. The hand gripping the knife steadied her gun hand as she slunk into the shipping yard’s shadows. They should have done a perimeter sweep before meetinging these Ferelden wannabe tough guys. Ashir had said as much, but there hadn’t been time. Now she wished that he’d insisted, because the time and location of this meeting were all the right components for an ambush. 

Resisting the urge to light up the night, Ozena searched the darkness gathered between each stack of shipping containers. She didn’t want to give away her position with floating orbs of sourceless light, not if it’d cost her the advantage of sneaking up on someone. Behind her, at the meeting she’d left to cooler heads, came the deafening discharge of firing guns rat-tat-tatting into the night. She glanced over her shoulder, pausing her search to gauge the sound. Ozena had seen the human remove the rifle from the case Zet had been holding, she knew it had to be him, taking the thing for a test drive. But she held her breath and strained her ears anyway, as if she could interpret the tone of the gunfire and identify its intent. 

Just a kid with a new toy, taking it out for a spin. 

She’d all but convinced herself of her club’s safety when something moved out of the corner of her eye. Ozena aimed her gun at the shifting shadows, too late. A forceful energy slammed into her and threw her into the shipping container behind her. Her muscles went taut on impact and the barrel of her gun illuminated, lightning and thunder that was followed by a pained shout. She was the first to gather her bearings and flung herself into the fight, lowering her gun and raising her knife as the figure ducked to the side then stepped in closer, their fingers glossy as they held their limp arm. 

Something primordial rippled in her, a radiant energy that flexed; like recognizing like. Ozena reached for that effervescent glow. A drop was pulled from the shallow pool and manifested along her surface. Just as the figure hurled themself at her, brandishing a shard of ice that gleamed as sharp as her own knife, a layer of bark formed on her skin. 

Ozena lifted her arm as they moved. The added layer of oaked armor deflected the ice shard the hooded mage flung at her. She side stepped their tackle and raised her knee to catch them in the gut before they could tumble past her. When they doubled over, gasping for breath, she slammed her elbow into the back of their neck. The mage collapsed to the ground and Ozena re-holstered her gun before she flipped them onto their back. 

Lifting her palm, she tapped again into the small pool of primal power. A small globule of pale green light took shape in her hand, a floating orb that shone weakly in the dark and only gave off just enough light to see by as she crouched down on top of the mage and yanked their hood back. One hand was held up in surrender while the other pressed down on his bleeding shoulder. Her hunting knife on his throat kept him still as she scoured his human features. 

She ripped down the collar of his coat then peeled his bottom lip away from his teeth. “Who sent you?” demanded Ozena, still searching him for colors. 

“P-please,” coughed the human, raised hand trembling. 

No. Not trembling. Moving. 

Too late she noticed the glif he’d stubtly drawn into the air. The now glowing sigul pulsed and Ozena was flung back again, thrown fifteen feet like a damn ragdoll as the mage scrambled onto his feet and disappeared into the shadows before she could think to mark him with her magic. She slammed hard into another storage unit. The collision punched the air out of her lungs. Ozena caught onto the container’s rust roughened exterior to keep from falling while her brain did a hard reboot and tried to get the breathe-in-breathe-out cycle going again. Distantly she registered the deafening exchange of gunfire cracking nearby. 

Ozet. The club. This was an ambush after all. 

Coughing, she pushed away from the cargo container and stumbled toward the sound. Every step closer was surer, more steady than the last. There was a clarity to her heartbeat, a certainty to her desperation. Ashir called it a battle calm, and the other once-soldiers in Valo-Kas agreed that it was a real thing. Time slowed, darkness lifted, Ozena’s mind was suped up on NOS. Her instincts took hold and everything else moved onto the back burner. 

She only realized that she’d freed her gun when she lifted it with steady hands and squeezed the trigger. The hooded figure on top of a crate stack fell from his perch. His wet thump landing went unnoticed as Ozena lined another shot. There was another figure behind Valo-Kas, another mage casting a barrage of spells at their backs, as if they were pulling each attack from the tome levitating before them. She squeezed the trigger, unloading a rattle of gunfire and each bullet slammed into a shield they’d erected around themself. 

Stepping forward as she shot, she knew her clip would be empty before she could get that barrier down. There was hope, though, when she noticed the cracks in the forcefield. The magic was crumbling under the assault. Fissures spiderwebbed over the bubble and, when he finally turned his attention onto her, Ozena’s barkskin deflected the glowing missiles he hurled her way. 

The shell encapsulating him disintegrated in a burst of light and Ozena lowered her head before charging him down. She rammed into him, horns first, and knocked him off his feet. Before he could gasp for breath she sat on his chest, grabbed hold of either side of his head, and beat it into the cement. Once, twice, again and again, until his body went limp beneath her. Until blood pooled like ink and his head came away lighter from the ground, if stringy when she pulled it back. 

“Pull back, pull back!” Shokrakar sounded the retreat and it was the near panic in her voice that snapped her out of her battle calm. 

The world slid into focus with screaming and exploding weapons. She scanned the scene as she moved for cover behind a shipping container, scouring the slaughter ground for her club. They were easy to locate in the chaos, an organized unit, a localized tempest. Shok and Zet were guarding their client, the small Tevinter woman tucked under Zet, between him and the crate they were both ducked behind. Shokrakar and the client's body guard were behind a nearby stack of crates, each peeking from cover whenever there was an opening to offer coverfire as the other members worked their way back from the gunfight. 

By the dead humans splayed near the docks, she knew that this business meet was a bust. All Valo-Kas cold do now was get the client out alive. And, more importantly, themselves. 

Ozena slid the empty magazine from it’s compartment, letting it fall to the ground in a clatter. A fresh metal jacket glided into place and locked there by a bump from the heel of her palm. She leaned out from behind cover, barrel first, and added to the cover fire. They needed to get to their bikes, but she wasn’t going to go anywhere without her brother. 

One by one, Valo-Kas drew back. Between reloads they found cover further away from the docks, within the walls of shipping containers. She kept her weapon trained on the elevated shooter. Before she could wish that she had a deeper pool of magic, or a more refined hold on the magic she did have, blood misted from his chest as two shots hit home and dropped him out of the fight. She was better with a gun anyway. 

Nys touched her shoulder as she passed, instructions in a squeeze she barely felt. But Zet was still out there and she wouldn’t budge. With the rest of the club retreating a safe distance away, Shok and Zet finally peeled away from their crates after giving their client and her driver coverfire. Once the two were safe, Valo-Kas’ president and vice president slunk between the containers before they could get pinned down. And with them on the move, Ozena also made a mad dash for their waiting bikes. Gunfire and shouting still sounded from behind them, but none of them looked back. 

As she sprinted through the shipping yard toward their motorcycles, the roar of several engines joined the night’s deadly cacophony. She was racing toward her own bike when a scream stopped her in her tracks. Ozena turned back to watch the driver fall face first to the ground. His back was a mess of mangled flesh and shredded fabric. Their client struggled from Zet’s holdas he half dragged her toward the SUV. She managed to slip his grasp, ducking under his arm to race toward the fallen elf. 

Ozena’s focus left the screaming woman and panned over to the hooded figure who’d picked up one of the heavy weapons their client had brought for show and tell. Her heart stopped and blood chilled to ice as she watched him lift the weapon to his chest and line up a shot. Zet lurched forward, arms outstretched, ready to throw himself between the client and a spray of bullets. 

_‘NO!’_ she screamed from the depths of her soul, unsure and uncaring if the word managed to claw up her throat and tear through the night as well. Arms thrown out, hands splayed in front of her, Ozena emptied all that remained of her magic into protecting her twin. She imagined a second skin, not of bark like hers, but something otherworldly, impenetrable, pure hermetic power as unbreakable as their bond. 

Ozet’s skin flashed with a vibrant blue glow that dimmed as her magic settled over him. 

The moment it did the maelstrom was unleashed. The machine gun’s barrel sparked white. A ceaseless cracking cut like a machete through the night, vicious and deadly. Zet threw himself in front of it just as the hooded figure sprayed the night with a flesh shredding volley of lead. There was a squelching sound of pierced skin and blood spray, and Ozena screamed in horror, convinced her too shallow pool of magic had failed her, failed him, had damned them both. 

But Zet’s skin flashed blue again and again, a strobing light that was followed by the clatter of bullets falling to the concrete around him. 

Before she could process the heaving breaths of his curled form protecting their client, a replying crack shot from behind her. The machine gun slipped from the hooded figure’s hands. His hood fell back with his head, revealing a hole between his eyes. He collapsed to the ground and Ozena was moving before his body made impact, racing for her brother as Shok shouted commands. 

“Get her the fuck out of here!”

Ozet stood from his crouch with the human in his arms. He saw her running his way and issued his own orders. “The keys.”

“On it,” she said, sprinting past her brother toward the dead elf. She skidded to a stop beside his body and turned him onto his mutilated back to reveal a front that wasn’t much prettier. Patting his pockets down, she found his keys just as more hooded figures appeared from between the shipping containers. She didn’t wait for them to unleash their guns or magic. Ozena shot back onto her feet and scrambled for the same SUV Zet was running toward. 

“Zet,” she shouted as she neared him. When he turned she said, “Trade me,” and tossed him the keys.

He caught them in the hand under the human’s knees, who he slid into her arms once Ozena had stopped in front of him. Zet opened the back passenger door and she climbed in with the human in tow. The door slammed shut before she was fully settled. Outside Ozet shouted, “Go, go, go,” and the roar of revving engines met his command, then the crack of gunfire popped in rebuttal. 

Zet slammed into the driver’s seat. The engine started with a soft rumble, the machinery too expensive, manufactured for silence and elegance that could never match the bassy roar of a motorcycle’s V-twin engine they were used to. When he stepped on the gas it shot forward without a gurgle of protest. He didn’t look away from the night darkened road ahead when he asked, “How’s she doing back there, Zen?” The question was followed by the scraping sound of bullets cutting through metal and shattering glass. 

She didn’t answer, couldn’t answer. Ozena stared desperately at the human bleeding all over the luxury leather seats. She was choking on it. Crimson dribbled from her mouth, it stained her teeth as she coughed it up. Ozena moved her hands from where she was holding them to her middle. 

A murmured, “Fuck,” left her as she looked up from the human’s abdomen to her tearful brown eyes. 

“Well?”

She cut him off with a harsh, “ _Shhh_ ,” and placed her hands where the woman’s had just been. To her brother, she instructed, “Let me concentrate,” and shut her eyes to do just that. 

Taking deep, slow breaths, she reached again for that ever glowing ember, but it was dim, so fucking dim. All that was left was the smoldering glow of a candle starved of air, all but extinguished if not for sheer stubbornness. She harnessed it anyway, gathering the dredges of magic she still had left and poured it into the human. Thinking mending thoughts, of flesh stitching together, blood receding, smooth, unblemished skin, her hands glowed with a white, purifying energy. The light speared dimly between the cracks of her fingers, from the tight space between her hands and the woman’s middle. It was healing magic, and it wasn’t enough. 

The wound was stitching together too slowly. She’d lost too much blood. There was too much damage. Tears streamed from the corners of her eyes and into her dark hair. Long lashes fluttered and she groaned, sobbing, still choking on her blood. Her near black eyes were on Ozena’s face. She tried to speak but the effort looked like agony. It took too much out of her. The woman blinked and her gaze was past Ozena, distant and unseeing, the life draining from them with every second. 

“No, no, no, no. Come on, you Tevinter bitch. Don’t you die on me.”

“Zen.”

Ignoring her brother, Ozena moved her bloody hands from the woman’s middle to the space between her breasts and started doing chest compressions. “Don’t. You. Dare. Die. You. Stupid. Fucking. Bitch.” Each word was punctuated by the forceful press of her stacked palms to the woman’s sternum. After she breathed into her mouth, she started again.

She barely noticed when Ozet pulled off to the side of the road, just kept doing chest compressions to the unmoving body staring blankly at the ceiling. The passenger door opened to let in a wave of cold air, and Ozena didn’t look up to see her brother standing there, staring. She already knew what he was going to ask, what he’d suggest, as if she hadn’t already considered it. 

“I’m tapped,” she grunted between clenched teeth, still not looking up from the Tevinter woman that had almost gotten them all killed. “There’s nothing left.”

Zet’s hand settled on top of both of hers, stopping her from another round of compressions. “Enough, Zen,” he said gently, pulling both her hand and her attention away from the dead woman in the backseat until her gaze met his. “She’s dead. It’s over. There’s nothing you can do.”

He held his hand out to her and Ozena hesitated just long enough to glance down at those dark, vacant eyes before she put her hand in his and let him help her out of the SUV. She gulped down fresh air then doubled over with her hands on her knees. The wave of nausea and exhaustion that hit her wasn’t because she'd seen a woman die right in front of her. She was drained and her body was punishing her for it. There was nothing left and if she tried to force it she wouldn't be able to keep her dinner down. 

Ozet rubbed her back as she gulped down the cold night air. It wasn’t long before the rumbling of motorcycles closed in on them and she’d rather not be hacking up the whole of her stomach while the club deliberated their next move. 

* * *

###  **Ozet**

He was rubbing circles onto Ozena’s back when the rest of the club pulled up to the SUV and dismounted their bikes. A breath of relief eased out of him after a quick head count confirmed that all of Valo-Kas was accounted for. Prepared as he’d been for the night to go to shit, he still hadn’t anticipated casualties, and maybe his relief made him a bastard, but he wouldn’t apologize for being glad that his people weren’t counted among them. His gaze dropped down to his twin, who still had her hands braced on her knees as she breathed through her nausea. 

It’d been a close thing. Too close. This couldn’t happen again.

Shokrakar approached, gravel crunching under her motorcycle boots, her gaze on their faces before she glanced toward the open back passenger door. “The girl?”

“Dead,” he supplied with a shake of his head.

“Shit,” grumbled the president as she rubbed a ring covered hand over her mouth and jaw. “Shit!”

Zet agreed with the sentiment. This was bad for them. Dead clients weren’t the best representation of the quality of their security work. Not to mention the mess they’d been left with. A body and his and Ozena’s prints all over the bloody, bullet hole riddled vehicle that was probably a rental and would be reported stolen sooner or later. 

What a fucking shitshow. 

Patting the front of his leathers, Zet reached into his cut’s inside breast pocket and pulled free the pack of cigarettes and lighter he kept there. He tapped the cigarettes to his thigh a few times before lifting a butt to his mouth and holding it between his lips as he offered the pack to Ozena. She pushed off of her knees with murmured thanks and, while she picked one out for herself, he thumbed the flint wheel behind the shield of his hand. The flame was joined by an exhale of smoke, and he kept it burning long enough for Zen to light the tip of her own cancer stick before he flipped the lighter shut and returned everything to the pocket he’d pulled them from. 

Around them, others were also lighting up. Apparently they weren’t the only ones that needed a nicotine bump. After the night’s many close calls he knew that more than a few would want to drown the tension with Sword Swallowers and alcohol, and there’d be plenty of both waiting at the clubhouse for their return. But first there was a mess to clean up. 

To Shok he said, “I’ll get rid of the car and the body, but Zen’s and my bikes are still at the shipping yard.”

She glanced over to the elf, a command in the question posed as his name. “Ash?”

Dark eyes shifted between him and his twin. Thoughtfully, he supplied, “Four of us can double up, ride back to the wharf and bring your bikes home.”

Zen shook her head. Flicking the butt of her cigarette with her thumb, she knocked the ash from its tip and argued, “That’s a lot of unnecessary back and forth that might draw attention. I’ll go with Zet to deal with this,” She motioned vaguely at the SUV. “We’ll pick up a car and drive back to the shipping yard for our bikes. After everything that just happened we should lay low. The fewer of us on the streets, the better.”

“She’s right,” Ashir agreed, but Zet didn’t like her part in this new plan. 

He observed her wan skin and hollow eyes. She looked sallow and exhausted, and he didn't like the idea of walking her back into potential danger when she looked dead on her feet. “I’ll take Vercer,” he said, exhaling a plume of grey, still watching his sister closely. “You should go to the clubhouse and get some rest.”

As always, she was quick to argue. “Like fuck you will. I’m going.”

“Zen--”

“She’s fine,” Shok interrupted his argument, arms folded in front of her chest as she also observed his sister. But if she was willing to let Zen charge back into a fight, she clearly wasn’t seeing what he was. Moving her gaze onto him, she said, “Get rid of the body and wipe the car clean. I don’t want anything to trace back to us.”

On a sigh, Shok’s gaze took in the MC and she shook her head. Heavy eyelids slid shut and she pressed the heels of her palms into them. When she dropped her hands from her face she gave them all another once over, then the SUV they’d be getting rid of, then sighed again. “We’ll deal with the rest in the AM.” She sounded as exhausted as Ozena looked.

Cigarettes were smoked down to the filters then flicked across the pavement, into the dry, roadside shrubs, except for Ashir’s; which was pocketed to be properly disposed of later. Brief goodbyes were made, embraces exchanged, along with promises to meet back at the clubhouse before they went their separate ways. The club got back on their motorcycles and drove into the night as he and Zen slid back into the SUV and drove in the opposite direction, back toward the coast. 

It was a quiet ride and he might have been thankful for it if it weren’t for the tension blasting off of his sister in a heatwave. She was angry with him, the razor sharp silence a dead give away that she was stewing in it. If he had the energy to lock horns with her, he’d have asked what was up, but it’d been a long night and Zet really didn’t want to fight with her. 

It’d been a good long while since she’d tapped herself out like she had tonight, longer still since they’d had this close a shave. Anger was how she coped, but thirteen hours of sleep would also do the trick; which was why she should have gone home instead of climbing into the passenger seat and exhausting herself that much more. 

One hand on the steering wheel, the other softly tapping along the edge of the center console dividing them, Zet’s gaze was trained on the headlight illuminated road and strips of yellow paint that zipped under the SUV like they were going lightspeed. A heavy sigh flattened his chest at the thought of the body in the back seat. 

Livia Herathinos had left them with quite a mess, but he was more interested in the trouble she’d been getting _herself_ into. 

From what little of the business meeting had actually gone down, Zet had gathered that she was selling guns. More than that. She’d been selling military grade heavy weapons, or at least had that level of firepower in stock. Face time with her buyers had been short, but they’d seemed small time, with neither the funds nor need for that kind of arsenal. So what had that meeting _really_ been about and why had they been ambushed? Had the hoods come for Livia, or her buyers?

Fuck. They were knee deep in it now, with no idea what the fuck they were wading through. 

He tightened his grip on the steering wheel and took a slow, steadying breath. They’d deal with one thing at a time. First the body and the car had to disappear. Everything else could wait until after a hot shower, big meal, and some much needed shut eye. 

Shok had said it best: they’d deal with the rest in the AM. 

The SUV came to a stop in front of a canal not far from the Seagrave coastline, a ways away from the shipping yard, at a dock that saw so little traffic that the signs had all rusted over and the dock itself had collapsed with rot. There was an incline where one might back a boat into the water, and the advisory posted nearby suggested that doing so was a bad idea. This was so far off the beaten path that it’d probably be years before the SUV was discovered and, by then, there wouldn't be a scrap of evidence left to link Valo-Kas to this crime or anything else that had happened tonight. 

He pressed the start button to kill the engine, muttering, “Come on,” as he pushed his door open and stepped out of the vehicle. The door was left open as he moved for the back passenger seat. They’d have to move Livia into the driver’s seat before they wiped the whole thing down. 

While he hooked his hands under her arms and dragged her body from the backseat, Ozena felt under the seats and searched the compartments for the emergency roadside kit. It took a few minutes of impatient grousing and some frustrated snarls before she yanked a lumpy red satchel from a compartment in the trunk. Zet knew better than to comment and instead focused on situating the body in the driver’s seat and strapping it in. 

When Zen tossed him a pair of clear, latex gloves, he squeezed his fingers into them, watching as she did the same. She’d found a bottle of some hydrogen peroxide and tossed it to him, along with a packet of gauze. He tore it open for the woven pads inside and began to spray down anything he might have touched. 

In the back and the rest of the SUV, Ozena was doing the same. Since they had the time they did a thorough job of it, emerging nearly half an hour later confident that neither of them had left a trace of themselves behind. He glanced sidelong at his twin and frowned as what he saw made him turn his face to really look at her. 

She was covered in blood. Her hands, her clothes, even her face. She’d need to wash off before they hit the road again, would probably need to lose her shirt, too. The blood on her pants wasn’t as easy to spot on the dark wash denim. 

“Give me the gauze,” she growled instead of the ‘ _what the fuck are you looking at?_ ’ he saw burning in her eyes. 

Zet handed it to her, along with the rest of what she’d given him, and watched her stalk over to the patchy shrubbery to kick up some dirt. Zen dug a shallow hole in the earth then dropped all their steril smelling and blood stained trash into it. Shrugging out of her cut, she held it out for him to take before pulling off her tank top to toss onto the pile. When she held out her hand it wasn’t her cut he placed into it, but his lighter. 

She lit up the last square of gauze and let it fall into the hole. It wasn’t long before everything inside was on fire.

This time when she held out her hand he returned her cut, watching wearily as she shoved her arms through the holes and adjusted its fit on her shoulders. Watching the fire burn away the evidence of their ever being in the SUV, Zen peeled off the latex gloves and tossed them into the flames. 

“Do you want to explain to me what that was earlier,” she demanded, still not tearing her scowl away from the small, makeshift fire pit at their feet. 

He folded his arms in front of himself. Nothing he said would be the right thing, but he tried a tenuous, “You’ll have to be more specific,” on for size and immediately regretted it. 

Zen’s flaying glare snapped onto him. She turned away from the fire to face him fully and hiss, “You almost died tonight, Ozet. For _her_.” She threw a hand toward the SUV, gesturing at the dead body strapped in the driver’s seat. 

A deep breath filled his lungs and it he let it out slowly. He wet his lips before he dared to answer. “Sometimes the jobs we take are dangerous, Zen. You know that. It wasn’t a big deal.”

She shoved his chest then got in his face, teeth bared as fury flashed in her violet eyes. The same eyes as his. “The jobs we take aren’t worth your life. _She_ wasn’t worth your life. You threw yourself between her and a machine gun and the _only_ reason we’re not pushing you into the canal right along with her is because of me.”

Staring down at his sister, Zet searched her outraged expression for the fear he knew was behind it. He shoved his hands into his pockets and shrugged. “What do you want to hear, Zen?” He shook his head in a curt side to side. “That I’m grateful? You know I am.”

“I want you to fucking think! For once just consider that your life is worth more than the paycheck that Tevinter bitch had cut us. You could have died tonight and it was almost for her. For _nothing_.”

All he could do was shake his head again. “That’s the job, Zen.”

Again she shoved him, harder this time, and Zet forfeited a step to her anger. “The job is security, not pointless self sacrifice, you fucking idiot!” The fire flared brighter in her eyes and he thought that she might take a swing at him, but her jaw ticked and her nostrils flared and, after a second, all she did was shut her eyes, drop her chin, and shake her head, bumbling, “If something had happened to you…”

“Zen--”

Before he could try to comfort her, to reassure her that he was fine, they were both fine, the screeching howl of sirens tore through the night. They looked at each other and cursed as they moved, Zet to push the SUV into the canal and Zen to wash off as much of the blood as she could from her hands, forearms, and face. They’d also need to wipe down and get rid of their weapons, and their clothes were still bloodstained. 

There wasn’t enough time and he barely managed to push start the engine and throw the gear shift into neutral before a team of headlights closed in on them with a flash of red and blue lights. They didn’t even have time to run, not with how many cars had converged on them; they wouldn’t make it far if they tried. 

When a voice came on a megaphone, he and Ozena shared a look. He wanted to scream at her to run, but knew they’d just shoot her down before she could make it two steps. One look at the horns, at the blood covering them, and their guilt was decided. If they found out that she was a mage…

He stared pleadingly into her fearful eyes as he slowly lifted his hands and begged her to do the same. Maybe cooperation would buy them some good favor. The odds were stacked tall against them, but he couldn’t let anything happen to his sister. He’d do whatever he had to. They weren’t going to take her. He wouldn’t let them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're enjoying the story!


	4. An Illusion of Choice

### Cullen

Arms folded in front of his chest, Cullen’s brows narrowed as he stared through the glass at the fierce looking, horned woman on the other side. There was impatience to the way she was seated, boredom in how she slumped low in the chair, crossed her arms, and leered around the room with sunset colored eyes, scowling at the camera she founded hanging in the corner. 

He hadn’t seen many qunari since leaving Kirkwall, and never one of their females. If he’d ever been curious enough to wonder what one looked like, she was more or less what he might have expected. Tall, with dark, grey skin that looked cut from granite, and large, curling ram’s horns. She was thinner than he might have anticipated, lithe, with a dancer’s body that he might have called willowy if that word didn’t feel like it discredited the muscle definition on full display on her exposed arms, along with the tattoos that covered them. 

Under the leather vest and sports bra were the harsh traditional lines similar to what he’d seen her kind wear as war paint. A strip of black ink marked a line from her bottom lip, past her chin, and all the way down her neck, where it branched out in a severe design across her chest and arms, and he’d bet that it marked the whole of her back, too. It wasn’t the ink that gave her a sinister look, but the blood. 

She was covered in it. Her hands and arms were stained scarlet. There were smudges on her face. Locks of her silver hair were clumped with it. She looked like she’d either survived or committed an atrocity and was unfazed either way. 

This qunari was a criminal. Of that there was little doubt. How they --or anyone, for that matter-- were supposed to bend her to their will, however, he was a little less sure about.

As if on cue, the door opened and a slim, redheaded figure sauntered his way. “Director,” she said, a smirk in her voice as she held a file between them. 

“Deputy Director,” he returned, accepting the extended file and leafed it open. After a quick glance at Leliana’s impassive expression, Cullen dropped his focus to the file she’d given him and gave the contents a swift perusal. “What did you find?”

As he scanned the various documents within, Leliana confessed, “Not as much as I would have liked.” There was a soft note of frustration to her lilting, accented voice. 

Without looking up, he muttered a probing, “Oh?” and skipped over a few lines of each page. 

“She has kept a fairly low profile since coming to Ferelden, and doesn’t have much of a social media presence, either. If it wasn’t for tonight, she and her associates could have very well continued to go on under our radar.”

He hummed. No recent arrests and only misdemeanors to her name, she hadn’t gotten so much as a speeding ticket in years. The woman’s priors were non-violent. It wasn’t a spotless record, but if Leliana had managed to uncover anything more incriminating he’d have an easier go of what came next. What he had was enough. He’d make it work. 

“Thank you, Leliana. This will help.”

He strode toward the exit and, when he touched the door handle the smirk was back in her voice. “Good luck, Cullen.” the ‘ _you’ll need it’_ followed him silently out the door. 

When he entered the interview room, he was greeted by a disinterested, “I hope my lawyer’s trailing in behind you, human. Because I have nothing to say to you, otherwise.”

Cullen settled in the chair across from hers and set the manilla folder down in front of him. He kept his gaze trained on the task of flipping it open, not daring to get a good, up close look at her now that there was only a table between them. Casually, like he had nothing better to do and they had nothing but time, he replied, “You don’t have to say anything, Miss Adaar, but I would appreciate it if you did me the courtesy of listening.” He glanced up at her then, curious to measure her resolve. 

True to her word, she didn’t bother with a reply. She simply tightened the cross of her arms, planted her boots firmly on the ground, and leaned the chair onto its back legs. Her vibrant, purple eyes were on him, and he was stunned by their coloring. Lilac, lavender, ringed by violet, they seemed iridescent, and he was reminded of a time just before he’d left Ferelden, of creatures with a similar color scheme. 

He cleared his throat, sifted through the documents in her file, and moved onto his purpose. “Ozena Adaar, twenty-eight year old qunari, born just outside of Wildervale in the Free Marches to Issala and Kost Adaar; who were both accused of first degree murder and sentenced to death when you were and your twin, Ozet Adaar, were ten. From there you jumped around group homes for two years before running away to find your brother. You were both taken in by a family friend, who ensured you received a formal education until the age of eighteen, when you both then joined her biker gang--”

“Motorcycle club.” To his raised eyebrow, she explained, “We’re not a gang, we’re a club. Just a group of motorcycle enthusiasts who enjoy riding together in matching leathers.”

“Right.” His gaze dropped to her stained hands and forearms before he continued. “You’ve only been arrested four times in your life, for petty theft, harassment, and joy riding. Nothing since you were fourteen. Not even a traffic violation. Your ‘ _club_ ’ came to Ferelden two years ago, to Amaranthine, where you have been doing private security work.”

“Vashoth,” she said when he’d paused to glance up from the papers in front of him to meet and hold her gaze. 

“I’m sorry?”

Ozena shrugged, lifting her muscular arms to cup the back of her head as she tilted her chair further back, less cares to her name than arrests. “I’m vashoth, not qunari. I wasn’t born to the Qun. I also never had the pleasure of leaving it, so I’m not Tal-Vashoth, either.” Her mouth sliced into a half smile that he imagined helped a great deal in her line of work. That was the smile of a woman who reveled in being challenged, underestimated, if for no other reason than to destroy whatever presumptions anyone had of her. 

Maintaining his gaze, she mused, “If you’re writing my biography I’d like for it to be an honest accounting of my life and experiences.”

A thoughtful nod from him, and Cullen casually agreed, stating, “Honest like us finding you and your brother tampering with and destroying evidence?” He lifted his brows with the observation, “That’s obstruction of justice, Miss Adaar.”

He watched as her smirk tightened mildly, impressed that it was the only thing in her demeanor to change. He wondered how long that’d stay the case. “We also have you on possession of an unregistered fire arm, and murder.”

Now the front legs of her chair dropped and she moved her hands to her thighs. Frowning, she repeated, “Murder,” and seemed genuinely surprised by the charge. 

Cullen nodded as he removed a photograph from the file in front of him. He slid it across the table and watched her face as he pulled his hand back to reveal Livia Herathinos’ naked body on an examination table. “The victim took a bullet to the chest and stomach. She died of blood loss and,” he tossed another photo in front of her, “magic.”

She picked the photo up to inspect it more closely , her frown deepening before those piercing amethyst eyes cut to him again. The photo was flicked back onto the table with a grumbled, “That’s bullshit.”

A quick glance at the photo between them and Cullen noted the slender handprint on the victim’s stomach, right on top of the bullet wound she’d taken there. “That’s the case any sensible prosecution will make. First that you shot her and, when that wasn’t enough to kill her, you took matters into your own hands.” He tapped the photo again. “Literally.”

Ozena Adaar shook her head. She looked furious with the accusation, her glare scathing, if unsurprised in a way that made him feel dirty. “If your forensic team is worth shit you already know that my weapon wasn’t the one that killed her. And this,” she jabbed a finger at the photograph, “was _healing_ magic. I was trying to _save_ her.”

Of course he knew that, and none of it mattered. That stain on his soul spread a bit further, because he knew and he still had to push her. It wasn’t just her glare that made him feel dirty, but the knowledge of what he had to do next. He ignored it. Her cooperation was vital. Cullen would do what he had to.

“Do you think that any jury would believe you, that any defense would be able to sell that in a courtroom?” Cullen didn’t laugh to emphasize his point, didn’t shake his head to drive it home, just held her glare as he explained, “You are a criminal and an apostate, and a well respected foriegn dignitary died at your hands. If, by some miracle, your attorney manages to get you the lightest sentence possible, you will still end up in a Circle, Miss Adaar; as a violent offender, suspected, if not convicted, of murder.”

As she processed the words and realization dawned in her eyes, Cullen gave voice to the fear he could see forming there. “They will make you tranquil, Miss Adaar. That is what they do to violent mages that use their magic to harm others.” 

It was what they did to innocent mages, too. He’d seen them do it, had been a part of it. He could clearly see the brand they’d put on her brow, could easily imagine those furious lavender eyes become flat and unfeeling. 

“I’m not--” She lifted her elbows onto the table and hunched forward to bury her face in her blood stained hands before dragging them down, over her mouth. Voice tight, she tried again. “I’m not a mage. Not really. I mean, I can do magic but… not a lot. Most mages have deep wells of power. My reservoir of magic is more like a birdbath.”

“You can still drown someone in a birdbath, Miss Adaar.” The look she gave him implied her desire to do just that. “You are an unregistered mage, whose magic resulted in an innocent woman’s death. It won’t matter that you don’t have ‘a lot’ of magic, just that someone is dead because of it. If you aren’t sentenced to death, the Right of Tranquility is the best you can hope for.”

She scoffed and it was a humorless, hateful sound. Leaning back in her chair, she slumped down, murmuring, “Same thing in the end,” before another scowl smouldered under her features, rage and misery swirling in her eyes. She looked like she might be sick. 

Interlacing her fingers, she brought her hands up to her mouth and pressed the backs of her thumbs to her lips. She clamped her eyes shut, unlocked her connected fingers, and pushed her palms into her eyesockets as she growled, “Where’s my fucking lawyer?”

Cullen didn’t reach for the photos still on the table in front of her, figuring they’d do more good in full view. He closed her file with a muttered, “How about I go check on that for you,” and stood from his seat. 

Manila folder in hand, he nodded a wordless goodbye and left the scowling qunari _\--vashoth--_ woman to her thoughts. 

Outside the interview room, as he shut the door behind him and waved away the whispering voice that reminded him that this was why he’d left Kirkwall in the first place, he was approached by Leliana again. A subtle smile curled the corners of her mouth as she handed him a tablet and praise. 

“Well done, Director.”

He didn’t thank her for either, just walked with her toward the second occupied interview room. Giving the redhead beside him a sidelong glance, Cullen wondered, “Any progress with the brother?”

Leliana shook her head and went on to supply, “This will certainly help things along,” motioning toward the tablet she’d passed off to him. 

“Maker willing.”

He rapped his knuckles on the door and, as he waited for an answer, half turned to Leliana. “See you in the observation room?”

Already twisting away from him, Leliana cheerfully replied, “I’ll have the popcorn ready.”

The door opened, snatching his attention away from Leliana’s back onto the woman on the other side of it. Steely brown eyes met and held his. Cassandra arched an eyebrow in silent command and question. When he handed her both the file and the tablet her only response was a nod. 

Before she shut the door in his face, Cullen caught the glimpse of the massive male vashoth seated in front of a metal table just like what was in the first room. Where his twin was slender grace, he was brute strength. But they had the same coloring, down to the matching tattoos. His harsher, more masculine. His purple eyes weren’t as vicious, but the resemblance was undeniable. 

The door shut and Cullen sighed. Rubbing his forefingers into his eyes, he tried to stave off the migraine forming behind them. It’d been a long night, and it wasn’t anywhere near over yet. All he wanted in that second was some of Mia’s cooking and his bed, though he doubted his dreams wouldn’t be haunted by lilac eyes and the horrible events they brought to mind. 

After a weighty exhale, he followed Leliana’s steps toward the observation room, half wishing she hadn’t been joking about the popcorn. He couldn’t remember when he’d eaten last, or if it’d even been today. 

* * *

###  **Ozet**

“Right,” groaned the severe woman as she eased herself back into the seat across from his. She set down a new folder, a tablet on top of it, and steeped her fingers as she propped her elbows on the table, musing, “Where were we?”

“You were saying something about having me dead to rights.”

A smirk cracked over her thin lips. “Ah, yes,” she replied, leaning back in her seat again, settling in. “And you were wondering about your lawyer.”

Arms folded in front of his chest, Zet nodded silently as he observed the human before him. Dark brown hair was cut short, with a braid that wrapped around her head. Her thin brows looked like her default face was scowl, and the lack of laugh lines seemed to emphasize that imagery She’d introduced herself as Special Agent Penteghast, but hadn’t bothered mentioning to which department, and he hadn’t asked. He hadn’t said much of anything, _wouldn’t_ say anything without his damn lawyer. 

It wasn’t his first time walking this tightrope. He’d burned his ass in the hot seat enough times to know that silence was his only ally when one of her kind had his back to the ropes. 

Looking at him just as closely as he was her, Special Agent Pentaghast confessed, “I haven’t contacted them.” To his quirked brow, she said, “You’re not under arrest, Mr. Adaar. Though we have plenty to charge you with, we haven’t. Not yet.”

He took in her caustic features, the stark scar that carved from her cheek to her jaw, and felt his own twitch as he clenched his teeth. Realization struck him as he held her brown eyes, as he considered the files she still hadn’t opened, and her job title. Zet might have laughed if he weren’t so worried about what was going on with his sister. 

Humorlessly, he stated, “You want to make a deal,” already shaking his head, incredulous. “You want me to rat.”

She moved her head in a small side to side, weighing his words against her intentions before muttering, “In a manner of speaking.” She held his gaze. “I want us to work together, a little quid pro quo that works to everyone’s benefit.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so. Either charge me with something or let me go. I’ve had a long night and I could use a shower.”

A sneer took hold of her expression as she gave him a critical once over, the agreeing sniff might have earned a smirk from him if it hadn’t been followed by her grumbled, “I’d think twice before making that request, Mr. Adaar. We have more than enough to convict both you and your sister.”

“You don’t have shit.”

“Possession of multiple unregistered firearms, obstruction of justice, murder. Would you like me to continue?”

“Spewing bullshit?” He shrugged. “You can save your breath. There’s no way to prove that we didn’t find those weapons in that woman’s SUV when we found her, or prove anything else for that matter; especially not murder.”

Her smirk was lupine and Zet had the good sense to be nervous at the sight of it. She made a thoughtful face as she opened one of the manila folders she’d brought, and fished a page out from inside. A photograph slid across the table and stopped right in front of him. He glanced down to see a brown skinned abdomen shredded by a bullet hole and marked by a slender handprint that discolored the skin with a slight bleaching effect. 

Zet cursed.

Ozena had healed him enough times for him to know what he was looking at. She always left a little something of herself behind whenever she healed, a mark that faded after a day or two. If they knew what it was, what _she_ was…

“We’ve matched the hand print on the victim’s body to your sister. Your sister performed magic on Miss Herathinos, and she died. If that alone were to see the inside of a courtroom… I think you know how a jury would decide.”

His heart stuttered in his rib cage, tripping over itself before it shot into a sprint so fast he felt lightheaded. She was right. He did know. 

“She was trying to save her,” he said, not able to hear himself over the thrash of his heartbeat and the blood pumping behind his ears. Even as the words came out of him, Zet knew it didn’t matter. 

To a jury of her “peers” Ozena would look like a monster. Standing almost six and a half feet tall, with dark, coal ash skin, violet eyes the shade of starlight, and horns that curled from her brow and around her ears, they’d decide her guilt with one look at her. Ozena’s tattoos, thinner lined and more elegant than his own, made her look wild, menacing, like she enjoyed cutting people open just to see what their insides looked like. Add her magic to all of that… They’d see the horns, the slim but athletic musculature, and figure that her hand on Livia’s belly was to boil the blood in her veins instead of for the desperate attempt to save her life that it had been. 

If Zen saw the inside of a courtroom they’d kill her; either outright or over time. He would lose his sister.

The Special Agent in front of him nodded as if she could see his thoughts on his face and could confirm every single one. She removed the tablet from her files, pressed a button on the side to turn it on, and unlocked the screen. The device was set down in front of him and Zet realized that he was looking at the camera feed coming from Zen’s interrogation room. 

As he watched his sister, noting the details of a room identical to his, the woman said, “She’s just been informed what a best case scenario for her would be in her current position.”

He didn’t look up from the screen to scowl at the human, to meet her hard brown eyes and wish that he himself was a mage and that he could set her on fire with his mind. Zet’s focus stayed on the tablet, on Zen as she paced the length of her interrogation room from wall to wall, raking her fingers through her hair, dragging her hands down her face, holding them in front of her like she was watching them shake. 

There was no sound to the feed, but Zet still felt like he heard her scream as she picked up the chair by its back and hurled it across the room. His sprinting heartbeat took a swan dive into his gut and plummeted straight for the bottom at the sight of her lowering herself to her haunches and cradling her head in her hands. All he could do was watch, helpless, as she rocked on her heels, more terrified than he had ever seen her. 

Speaking over the blood rushing behind his ears, Special Agent Pentaghast remarked, “Even if she’s only convicted on the possession charge, your sister is still an apostate tangled up in a homicide, and affiliated with violent, criminal entities.” She paused, likely waiting for him to look up and meet her gaze. When he didn’t, she continued to her point. “She _will_ end up in a Circle, there is no avoiding that much. But her record and affiliations make her dangerous to the people around her. If your sister is sent to a Circle she _will_ be made tranquil. There’s no avoiding that, either.”

Anger filled his bloodstream, hot and destructive. Zet wanted to reach over the table grab the woman by her head, and bash it into the table again and again until the metal went concave. He forced himself to breathe slowly, evenly, to keep the red from rimming his vision so he could see and think clearly. He couldn’t hurt Special Agent Pentaghast, couldn’t kill her no matter how badly he wanted to in that moment. There were more where she came from, all armed and looking for a reason to pump him full of lead. And he didn’t even know where Zen was. If he managed to kill the human, escape this room, and navigate the halls outside without getting himself killed, he’d still need to find his sister and get them the fuck out of there. 

There was no way they’d survive that kind of half formed plan. There was no way to save his sister… aside from one.

“What do you want?” he growled, finally looking up from the tablet to leer at the woman in front of him. “What’s the deal?”

Special Agent Pentaghast had enough sense to not look pleased with herself as she pulled the tablet away from him, shut off the screen, and set it aside. A new folder was produced, this one blue and emblazoned with a symbol he couldn’t get a good look at before she thumbed it open. 

The folder slid in front of him with the explanation, “Sign this and you and your sister were never anywhere near the crime scene or the victim’s SUV. All charges will be dropped, and you’ll be free to go. Break our deal and you will be convicted of all charges to the fullest extent of the law. You will spend the rest of your life in prison, and your sister will either be put to death or, best case scenario, be made tranquil.”

His teeth hurt from how hard he was grinding them. A slow deep breath expanded his chest and, with his eyes shut, Zet held it for five seconds before emptying his lungs. Voice so low it was more vibration than sound, he asked, “What do you want from me?” before opening his eyes to glare her down again. 

The human clicked a sleek metal pen and placed it on the paper. “First you sign, then I’ll explain the rest.”

Jaw still tight, his top lip pulled back from his teeth as he shook his head and turned his furious glare onto the papers in front of him. Zet did a quick scan of the legal mumbo jumbo, pulling apart the vernacular to roughly translate it to what she’d said, more or less. He picked up the pen and gave it a few test clicks as he debated stabbing it into the Special Agent’s eye, consequences be damned. But then that also meant Ozena be damned, and there was no way in hell that he was going to let them hurt his sister. 

Fuck. He wished he had a lawyer.

One last click of the pen and he flipped to the back page, lined the tip with the line along the bottom, and held his breath as he signed and dated the paper. His stomach was so tight that he felt like he might throw up. He dropped the pen onto the file and pushed both away from him, scowling blindly at the empty space they left behind.

“A wise decision,” said Agent Pentaghast and Zet barked a laugh. 

He rubbed his chin and wet his lips, a humorless smirk and exhale cutting to the surface as he shook his head again. _Decision_. As if he’d had a choice.

“Bitch,” he growled, “you are going to get me killed.”

“Not until you get us what we need,” she replied, pushing out of her seat and walking toward the door. Without looking back at him the woman muttered the order, “Come with me.”

He watched her open the door, step through, and hold it open, looking back at him expectantly. Wiping his palms down his pant legs, Zet stared past her and saw nothing but a grey wall. After another second of hesitation, he rose from his chair and started toward the door.

“Where are you taking me?”

“To see your sister,” she answered and shut the door behind him when he finally joined her in the hallway. “Then to show you both what you’ll be doing to help us.”

Zet walked behind her, head on a swivel as he took in every detail as they strode from the corridor, across an open office space, to another door marked Interview Room 2. Special Agent Pentaghast knocked twice on the door before pulling it poen. Inside of the room was a set up identical to the one he’d just left. His twin was in the chair furthest from the door, across from her was a human man, blond, pink skinned, built like a soldier. Between them was a blue file just like the one he’d just signed. 

Gaze flicking up from the papers to meet his sister’s surprise widened eyes, Zet stepped into the room, grumbling, “Sign it.”

She blinked. Her confusion doubled then redoubled, a frown taking hold of her features as she murmured a bemused, “Zet?”

“Sign it,” he repeated, voice stern, commanding, embodied by the VP patch stitched to his chest. “Just do it, Ozena.” 

At the sound of her full name she blinked again and shook her head. “But the club--”

“You’re not going to a Circle, Ozena. Just sign the fucking paper.”

Her violet eyes moved from him to the human man in front of her. Rage filled her gaze and tightened her expression. Nostrils flaring with her sharp inhale, Ozena picked up the pen, shook her head in a begrudging sweep, and signed her name to the line. With the last swoop of her signature, she grumbled, “I hope you know what the fuck you’re doing, Ozet,” and pushed the pen and paper back to the man. 

_Keeping you safe_ , he wanted to reply, but was cut off by Special Agent Pentaghast’s brusque voice.

“Now that that’s out of the way, both of you, follow me.” She glanced at the man and nodded. “Director, if you would please join us.”

“Right behind you,” he mumbled as he eased out of his chair and motioned for Zen to go ahead of him. 

His sister continued to glare at all three of them before her leer landed on him and settled there. The disapproval was clear in her eyes as her sneer deepened and she clenched her jaw. 

He didn’t have it in him to feel bad about what they’d done, what they were about to get themselves into. Not if it meant her freedom. Not if it meant she stayed his sister and not some placid, soulless shell that looked like her. 

He wasn’t sorry. Not for this. 

* * *

###  **Ozena**

Anger was too hot in her chest for her to feel anything else. Ozena wanted to scream. At Ozet, at the scarred lipped man, at the disaster they’d cannon balled themselves into. This was fucked. This was so, so fucked. 

Why the hell had she let Ozet tell her to sign that godsdamned deal? She’d sold her soul to these humans, to these _devils_. They both had. And for what?

Her life? Her mind? The very essence of who she was? … None of it was worth betraying their club. It wasn’t worth Zet’s respect and reputation. They were rats now. If anyone found out they’d be dead anyway. 

She could feel the scream building behind her ribs, the pressure of it pushing against her throat, blocking her airway. _Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck_. What had they done?

Following silently behind Ozet and the short haired human woman, Ozena glared over her shoulder to the man at her back. He was shorter than her by no more than two or three inchest at most, but wider, built like a man who could more than hold his own in a fight. But he’d never fought _her_ , and she wanted so badly to change that. 

When he met her glare she flashed her teeth at him in a malicious snarl before snapping her jaw. He didn’t flinch or fall a step back, just held her glare and his ground. Her laugh was humorless, disgusted. If the opportunity presented itself to start dropping bodies, she was going to start with him. 

Their small group strode through the offices, down a long, windowless hallway illuminated by fluorescent lights, to a keypad secured door. The woman at the front of their merry band punched in a quick code and was met by an approving beep and the _thunk_ of sliding deadbolts. She turned the handle, pushed the door open, then swept a hand in a motion for them to step inside.

Ozet peered back at her and Ozena scowled as she held his unapologetic stare. After a resigned breath, he stepped into the room and she was quick on his heels. 

She gave the space a cusory glance then swore a hissing, vicious, “What the _fuck_ did you get us into, Ozet?”


	5. The Deal

### Ozet

He wiped a hand across the mirror to cut a streak over its fogged surface. An exhale tumbled out of him, heavy and shuddering, as he stared at his reflection for a good, long moment. There was a bruise on his cheek, a soft purple blotch on his dark grey complexion, just under his eye. Shaking his head, he dropped his gaze to the sink between his hands. Bent over it, he felt the weight of the last 24 hours sitting squarely between his shoulders. 

If he wasn’t braced against the sink his knees might have buckled.

Another breath pushed out of him, tired but resolute. Zet had slept like a rock and had still woken up exhausted, half surprised that he’d only managed a few hours of sleep instead of the days it felt like he needed. None of it had been restful and, after tossing in his bed all morning, Zet couldn’t try to force it anymore. 

The shower helped to make him look more alert, less bleary eyed, but there was no hiding the exhaustion in his face; not when it came from a place so deep inside him. The only remedy for the dark circles under his eyes was a high dive into a pool of pitch black coffee. 

Pushing off of the sink, Zet pulled in a fortifying breath and set about getting ready. 

Hair towel dried and teeth brushed, he got dressed in dark wash jeans and a black on red flannel. He stuffed his phone into his pants pocket before he eased on his cut and dropped onto the corner of his bed. Ignoring the added weight of a leather vest that usually sat so easily on his shoulders, he tugged on his boots, laced them up, and perched his elbows on his knees as he stared at the ground between them. The night before played between his boots in clips and flashes, and Zet grit his teeth. He wouldn’t let himself feel guilty about what he’d done, what he’d told Zen to do. As the Vice President patch burned into his chest he reminded himself that he was Zen’s brother before he was anything else. He wasn’t going to lose her. He wasn’t going to lose his club either. 

He’d figure out how to fix this, how to get them out of it. All of them. 

Shaking the thoughts from his head, Zet pushed himself onto his feet and left the simple furnishings of his room behind, trading them for the scent of freshly brewed coffee. He strode down the narrow corridor --forced himself to keep walking past Zen’s door-- toward the common area, completely blind to the photographs, framed posters, and motorcycle paraphernalia he walked by as he went; too distracted by his churning thoughts to think about his home.

He turned left at the T, walking away from the apartments to step into the open space sectioned off by a fully stocked bar, some billiard tables, couches around a stripper pole, and a few bar tables littered throughout. On the far right, the double doors to chapel were propped open. Inside, seated at the head of the long, cherrywood table, was Shokrakar hunched over a spread of papers with a pair of reading glasses propped on the tip of her nose. There was a pen in her hand that she was using the butt of to tap at a calculator, the tape curling with whatever she was computing.

Either sensing his approach or hearing his steps, she looked up from her task. Eyebrows raised in both curiosity and surprise, she gave him a quick once over before nodding for him to sit at the table. Not one to miss a thing, Shok shouted, “Bri, babe, would you bring another plate and a cup of joe in here?”

“Coming right up,” said a sweet female voice from across the clubhouse, that Zet recognized as Briar, the elf hangaround that had latched herself onto Shokrakar and hadn’t let go. 

Valo-Kas’ president had never seemed to mind. Sword Swallowers came and went so often that their faces blurred together. Their names, too. Briar was supposed to be just another groupie, but Shok seemed to enjoy the girl’s company enough to keep her around. They took care of each other, so Zet had nothing to say on the matter. 

The dynamic of a relationship between consenting adults was none of his business. 

Zet kissed the top of Shok’s head, between her horns as he walked behind her, rounding the head of the table to sit in his chair at her left. He glanced briefly at her papers as he settled in his seat. Before he could get a good look at what she was working on, Bri strolled into the room with a steaming cup of coffee and a plate piled high with breakfast. When she set both down in front of him Zet mumbled his thanks, reaching for the mug as Shok slapped Bri’s ass then motioned for the elf to make herself scarce. 

Turning blue eyes from the sway of Bri’s hips to watch him scarf down the scrambled eggs on his plate, Shokrakar’s tone was casual when she commented, “You came in late last night.” She leaned back in her high backed leather throne of a chair, eyes still on him. “I wasn’t expecting you to be up so early.”

He shoveled another serving of potatoes into his mouth and shrugged as he felt her consider him. After swallowing the mouthful, then washing it down with coffee, Zet stated a simple, “Couldn’t sleep,” as answer. 

Shokrakar’s pen tapped on the table. She didn’t look away from him, just watched for a beat as he ate. Once his plate was nearly halfway cleaned she finally broke the quiet that had settled at the table. 

“Zen seemed pretty upset when you got back. That shiner from her?”

He exhaled a scoff. ‘Pretty upset’ was putting it mildly. When they’d finally gotten to their bikes Ozena had decked him right in the face, got on her bike, and ridden to the clubhouse like a bat out of hell. Not about to let her out of his sight, he’d stayed on her ass the entire drive back, and only gave her space again after they’d lined their bikes up with the others. He’d come into the clubhouse just as she slammed her bedroom door shut so hard it should have either fallen off its hinges or the whole frame came crashing down. 

Stabbing his fork into a breakfast sausage, Zet explained, “She drained herself yesterday. You know how she gets when she’s tapped,” and bit the sausage off the prongs. 

“Yeah, and that had nothing to do with you either.”

“I’m going to tell you the same thing I told her: sometimes the jobs we take are dangerous.”

The food in his stomach turned to sawdust and he swallowed hard to keep it all down. Hindsight being the miserable bitch that she was, if he’d known exactly how dangerous the Herathinos job would be, he would have just let her die. Because Zen had been right, too. It hadn’t been worth their lives. It hadn’t been worth everything else either. 

An eyebrow lifted as she considered him. After a second Shok point her pen at his chest with the observation, “That patch means knowing when to step up to the danger and when to step aside and let it pass you by.”

He looked up from his VP patch to meet her gaze again. “You think I made the wrong call,” he asked, tone level, neutral. 

“I think last night was a fucking clusterfuck and you made the best call you could have when all of them were shit.” Shokrakar shrugged but there was a seriousness to her eyes, the stern, familial chastisement from one loved one to another. She aimed her pen at him again, stating, “She didn’t pay us to die for her. That wasn’t part of the job.”

It took a long moment but, eventually, Zet slowly nodded. He couldn’t argue even if he wanted to. Not with Livia dead. If she’d lived, Shok wouldn’t bother with the ‘not what she paid for’ spiel. Not when the Vint would have owed them big time. Since that wasn’t how things had played out, all he could do was agree. 

He set the fork down on his plate then downed a few chugs of coffee, savoring the scalding heat. When he set the mug down again, he licked his lips, sighed through his nose, then met Shokrakar’s gaze. Firmly, seriously, he said, “We need to talk about last night.”

Last night, when everything had gone to shit, when he’d signed his life away and had demanded that Ozena do the same. Last night, when Ozena had given that secured room an incredulous once over before setting her gaze on him, horror and fury burning in equal parts in her violet eyes. He could still hear both in her voice, in the accusation passed as a rhetorical question. 

_What the_ fuck _did you get us into, Ozet?_

He’d looked around, too, his heartbeat an uneasy stumble behind his sternum. They’d walked into a spacious room, a conference room of some kind -- a war room, more like. The far wall was covered in photos, the top most one was an image of a black silhouette, a sticky note with a question mark slapped to its center. Underneath it was a photo of a man he didn’t recognize that had a line connecting it to a picture of Livia Herathinos, who was connected to another image; this one of her elven driver. On another section of wall were photos of faces he knew better than his own reflection, starting with Shokrakar, then his own face, the rest of Valo-Kas’ officers, and the other patched members. The ones that weren’t mug shots had their names pinned under their photos. 

Anger came to him first, hot and protective. The same searing rage he’d felt at the sight of Zen terrified in her interrogation room. These people had been watching them, likely had files on every Valo-Kas member just as thorough as the ones they had on him and Zen. 

Zet realized it then. It wasn’t just him and Zen that would be put down if they didn’t follow through with this deal. The entire MC would go down with them. 

When he looked to his sister he had no idea what he was going to say. Not an apology, because he still wasn’t sorry. But if he’d known what this was, who these people were, maybe he would have talked pros and cons with her before blindly signing their lives away. 

Special Agent Pentaghast cut in before Zet could scramble for something to say that would make his twin stop looking at him like _that._

“Before we get started, allow me to introduce the team.” She placed her hand to her chest and started, “I am Cassandra Pentaghast, the Special Agent in Charge. This,” she motioned to the blond man who had the look of a military man that went beyond his build, “is Cullen Rutherford, our Director of Field Operations. And, beside him, is Leliana Nightingale, our Deputy Director of Covert Operations.”

Zet panned his attention onto the red haired woman, who definitely had the feline look of someone who dealt in secrets. Her blue eyes shone bright, keen, not missing a single thing as she gave both him and Zen a once over. There was something cunning about the smirk she gave them instead of a greeting. 

Cassandra drew his attention back onto her with the explanation, “My wife, Josephine Montelyet, is an Assistant Attorney, and the one you have to thank for the deal that saved you both from ever seeing the inside of a courtroom, much less a prison cell.” She paused like she actually expected gratitude from either of them. When all she got was outraged silence, she continued to the point. “You are here because your MC unknowingly interfered with an ongoing investigation, and a matter of international security.”

The man pushed his sleeves up his forearms before folding his arms over his chest. He looked between him and Zen with amber eyes, asking, “What do either of you know about red lyrium?”

He and Zen shared a look. His twin shook her head, still scowling. It wasn’t a ‘ _don’t say shit_ ,’ movement, but a, ‘ _I don’t trust them,’_ gesture. There was cooperation and then there was _cooperation_. They could play along without playing nice. 

Refocusing on the man, Cullen, Zet answered, “Not much.” He glanced to Zen again, just long enough to catch her eyebrow twitch. “We heard some talk out of the Free Marches about a bad batch of lyrium making Kirkwall’s Knight-Commander go fucking bat shit.”

“More so than your average Templar,” added Zen, glowering past them at the photo and note covered walls.

Zet nodded curtly, rubbing his chin as he met and held Cullen’s guarded gaze. “Not sure if that’s related at all. We don’t get involved with the Chantry or the shit they regulate.” He didn’t look back at Zen when he finished, “For obvious reasons.”

“They are related,” confirmed Cassandra, who spared Cullen the briefest glance. To them she said, “Red lyrium drove Knight-Commander Meredith mad and has been slowly making its way through the Order in the Free Marches. We want to know the source and how deep this goes so we can lance this cyst at its root.”

He did look back at Zen then, his bemused expression reflected on her face. When he cut his gaze back to the humans it was to mutter, “Not really sure how that has anything to do with us or Valo-Kas.”

Cullen lifted a hand from the nook of his bent elbow and rubbed at the back of his neck, explaining, “Livia Herathinos was in Ferelden to establish a pipeline and secure a distributor to sell illegal, Seheron-made guns in southern Thedas; funding Tevinter’s resistance in the area in doing so.”

Blinking back his surprise, Zet frowned as he asked, “How do you know all of this?” Whatever satisfaction he might have felt in being right about Livia’s business in Seagrave was eclipsed by his discomfort that the feds knew so much about it. Everything, it seemed.

“We had a man on the inside,” said the red haired woman. A faint smile toyed with the corner of Leliana’s mouth when his gaze landed on her. It disappeared entirely from her face as she explained, “Her driver, Kellam, was an informant of ours. When he went dark we knew that something had gone wrong at the meeting.”

 _Yeah_ , thought Zet, rubbing at his chin, _He’s fucking dead._ By the sound of Zen’s scoff behind him, he knew that she was thinking the same thing. 

Before either of them could decide whether or not to break the news to them about their rat, Cullen continued on to inform them, “Kellam going dark was why we tracked Miss Herathinos’ car to your location.”

The sigh that cut out of him had a resigned, ‘ _of course it was,’_ to its edge. It didn’t occur to him to check the SUV for a tracker. It probably hadn’t occurred to Livia either. Zet didn’t have to wonder how Leliana managed to get the driver to turn CI. An elf in Tevinter. Those dots connected themselves.

“You still haven’t explained what any of this shit has to do with the MC,” grumbled Ozena from behind him. 

“Livia Herathinos was in Ferelden to find a distributor for her guns,” repeated Cassandra, drawing their attention back onto her. She held her wrist behind her back and kept her chin high as she stated, “Valo-Kas needs to be that distributor.”

“Valo-Kas doesn’t run guns,” he rebuked, caught somewhere between shocked and annoyed that these humans really only saw them as criminals. 

“It needs to start,” rebuffed Cassandra, her shrug unapologetic. “With the connections you make you’ll potentially be able to uncover information on the spread of red lyrium, and who we need to crush to stop it completely.”

Zen stepped up to stand beside him. Her glare was scathing as she regarded the humans. “Are you aware of the kind of heat that’ll bring on the MC? Not just from other government entities, but from other factions?” She looked around at them, her scowl deepening with the rising heat of her glare. “Livia came out just to talk to a potential buyer and the meet was shot to shit. We barely got out with our lives. Her prospective buyers? Not so much.”

Nodding, Zet asked, “Who the hell was that, by the way?”

Cullen shook his head. He glanced to Leliana, but she also curtly swept her chin in a short side to side. When he looked back at Zet it was to confess, “We don’t know. I sent a team to investigate the shipping yard but the area has been cleared. If there were bodies they’re gone now.”

“Even Kellam’s,” added Leliana somewhat somberly.

“And you want us to get involved with that,” said Zen, not bothering to disguise the accusation in her voice. 

“Yes,” replied Cassandra without breaking Zen’s glare. “And you _will_ get involved because that’s the deal you signed to walk out of here free.”

Before Cassandra was done talking Zen was already shaking her head. “We don’t run guns,” she repeated. “Valo-Kas is legit. Everything we do is above board. Find someone else.”

When it looked like Cassandra might argue, Zet interjected with a wary, “It’s not like we can just make this happen. The MC’s a democracy. Shit like this --life altering moves that’ll change what the club is at its core-- it needs to be passed by a majority vote.” He glanced at Zen, clenched his jaw, then refocused on Cassandra. “We’d need to convince Shok and the others that this is the best move for the MC, bring this to the table, then hope that they’re all willing to risk their lives and freedom for the money.”

“These people have families,” said Ozena, her distaste as sharp in her voice as it was in her glare. “It’ll be a hard sell.”

“We’re confident that you’ll figure something out,” replied Cassandra.

Cullen stepped up to the table separating them and placed a black rectangle on its surface. “Liva Herathinos’ phone.” He looked between him and Zen, explaining, “We’ve unlocked the device to access the contacts. Miss Herathinos came to Ferelden for a purpose. The people who sent her will want that purpose fulfilled, even if she is no longer in the picture. With this you should be able to connect with her sources and put Valo-Kas forward as their distributor.”

Fury burning as brightly in her eyes as hate was in her features, Zen bit out, “You’re going to get us killed.”

“People are already dying, Miss Adaar,” countered Leliana, straight faced and patient. “You can either help us put an end to it, or you can see how far you’ll get without our protection against those possession charges.”

He didn’t bother looking at his sister, just stepped forward and snatched up the phone. “We’ll do it,” said Zet, unable to suppress his own dispassion as he looked over the three humans. “We’ll do whatever we have to to make it happen.”

Behind him he could feel Ozena’s glare burning into his back. He could hear her voice inside his head, the accusation she was undoubtedly wearing on her face. 

_What the_ fuck _did you get us into, Ozet?_

Blinking himself out of the memory of last night, he exhaled a heavy breath and pushed himself out of his chair. He walked around the table again for the open double doors. The door stoppers were nudged up by the toe of his boot, and he let both doors glide shut before moving back for his chair. When he sat back down he reached into his cut’s inside breast pocket and removed everything from inside. 

The metal lighter and a pack of cigarettes went onto the table in front of him. The cellphone that definitely wasn’t his, was placed on top of the spread of paperwork littered before Shokrakar. He leaned back in his seat, plucked a cigarette from the pack, and tapped the filter to the table a few times as he stared at the phone sidelong. 

After a moment, he explained, “Last night our client met up with those Ferelden little leaguers to find a distributor for her guns.” He lifted the cigarette to his mouth, held it between his lips, and spun a flame from his lighter. Inhaling a heart steadying breath of smoke, Zet exhaled the confession, “I think it should be us.”

Shok didn’t bother hiding her surprise. “You want us to run guns,” she reiterated, incredulous.

He fought to keep his shrug impassive, his features confident. “We could do it,” he said. “We already have the contacts.” Before she could find the words to shut him down, Zet insisted, “You said it yourself: last night was a clusterfuck. If word hasn’t gotten out already that one of our clients died under our protection, it will. Security is what we do, and last night we shit the bed. People are going to find out and our rep is going to take a massive hit. Unless we do something to salvage it.”

Brows knit, pen tapping rhythmically at the table, Shokrakar’s attention stayed fixed on him as she mused, “Your solution is to run guns?”

“It’s the best move for us, Shok,” he replied with a confirming nod. Zet took another drag from is cigarette as he gathered the words to him and prayed to whatever gods were out there that he sounded more convincing and confident than he felt. “We’re the only ones that survived last night’s meet. We control the narrative. If we came out of last night as arms dealers no one will fuck with us.”

She scoffed, propped an elbow on the table, and her temple on her fingertips, her piercing blue gaze still pinned on him. “Yeah, because killing our connect, or letting her be killed, are both good looks for us.” When he opened his mouth to argue, Shok lifted her other hand to cut him off, drawling a slow, unconvinced, “I know, ‘we control the narrative’.”

A few seconds passed with neither of them saying anything. They stared, Zet impassively while Shokrakar tried to see through him, and he was half convinced that she could. Nearly a minute of building tension passed before she broke it. 

“You know, Ozet, I’m just having a really hard time understanding where the fuck this is coming from. How does my VP go from self sacrificing hero to gun running outlaw over the span of six hours? It doesn’t make any fucking sense.”

His sister spending the rest of her life tranquil in a Circle was how this made sense. Not that he could explain as much to Shok. The problem with lying to her was that she’d raised him. She’d been his guardian longer than he’d been with his own parents. The only person who knew him better than her, could see more clearly through his bullshit, was Zen. And she had the homefield advantage of having shared a womb with him. 

Since lying was likely to hurt his argument, Zet reworked the truth, stating, “Work hasn’t been steady for a long time and, after last night, it’s just gonna get worse. If you want to keep the lights on we’re gonna need another source of income, Shok. And if we want to do more than just break even month after month we need to do something that’ll pull in more money.” He shrugged. “We already have contacts across the map, from the Korcari Wilds all the way up to Rivain. It’s a solid move. We have what it takes.”

As he nursed his cigarette she continue to scrutinize his face, features set with wary consideration. “Do we,” she asked, still unconvinced, “Ashir has an old lady and some pups. Vercer, a baby girl. You know how Dev is with confined spaces. And your sister… If we do this and get caught we’re doing hard time. It’d be the end of the MC, and would put your sister at a judge’s mercy. I have never known you to be okay with Zen being at anyone’s mercy, Ozet.”

“We’ve already talked about it,” he said in a stream of grey smoke. Tapping the ash off his cancer stick into the glass tray he’d pulled closer to himself, he looked up from the burning tobacco to the powerful female at the head of the table, his president, his family. “And Zen agrees with me. We need to make a change that’ll do more than keep our heads above water. It’s risky but the payout will be worth it.”

Since she still didn’t look sold on the idea, Zet stamped his cigarette out in the ashtray. He pushed out of his seat and collected his dishes from the table. “Think about it,” he said, glancing sideways at Shokrakar. “We’ll bring it to the table after our job tomorrow, put it to a vote, and let the club decide.”

As he started for the door, Shok wondered at his back, “Do I need to be worried about you, VP?”

He opened the door, held it open with the toe of his boot, and peered back at her. “I’m good, Prez. I just want what’s best for the club.”

 _Hmm,_ she replied, inexpressive as she watched him duck out of the room. 

Once the door shut behind him, Zet expelled a breath and shook himself off before he dropped his dishes off in the kitchen.

* * *

### Ozena

She’d slept like the dead. She hadn’t expected to, had thought she’d spend the night tossing and turning, kept up by the thoughts running amok in her head. But she’d exhausted herself too thoroughly last night. Once her head hit the pillow, Ozena had been out like a light.

The only reason it was still daytime when she eventually stirred was because, sometime in the afternoon, Nys had thrown herself onto her bed with the sung complaint, “Wake up. I’m bored.”

Not wanting to lose her grip on sleep, Ozena hadn’t opened her eyes as she'd groaned, “Not my problem.” When Nys tugged on her horn, she’d physically kicked the smaller female off of her bed, whining, “Go away.”

Nys, of course, hadn’t gone away. In fact, she’d gotten her way. Because of course she did. Nys had never and would never take ‘no’ for an answer. And Ozena had a difficult time being mad about it when she emerged from the bathroom, freshly showered and dressed in sweats and a tank top, to find Nys with a plate of food as a peace offering. 

Crossing from the bathroom to the bed, where Nys was doing her best daytime game show model impression as she _ooo-_ ed and _ahhh-_ ed over the plate in her hands, Ozena snatched the plate with grunted thanks. She walked it over to the desk shoved against the far wall, dropped it onto its surface, and herself into the desk chair. Turning the plate in a salivating 360, she admired the thickly built sandwich and chips combo. 

Free of her role as Food Display, Nysris threw herself onto Ozena’s bed, cursed when her horn got caught in the tangled sheets, then splayed out on her mattress once she was free. Unlike hers and Ozet’s horns, which looped widely from their brow and back around past their jaw, Nys’ horns were the winding upward spiral of an antelope’s; shorter and thicker, but no less graceful. It took a few tries to lay her head down comfortably and, by the time she found a good position, Nys just rolled onto her side to face her, temple propped up on the heel of her palm. 

Ozena was too busy stuffing her face to be amused by Nys’ fussiness -- _ha_ , fussy-Nys. Contented grumbling noises rose from her chest as she scarfed the sandwich down so fast she choked on a rushed bite. Thumping her fist to her chest, she coughed around the bread in her mouth as she wheeled her desk chair over to the mini fridge and pulled out a bottle of water. The cap twisted off with a few quiet snaps and she washed down the choking hazard that was her half chewed food. 

Beautifully accented voice colored by a laugh, Nysris wondered, “You okay?” To which Ozena simply nodded before going back to her food and grunting in pleasure. 

Her hurried chewing slowed when Nys muttered a conversational, “So last night was a bit of a mess, huh?”

Swallowing hard, she took another long pull of water before she worked the bread loose from between her teeth with her tongue. Sandwich in hand, Ozena eyed the jet skinned woman impassively as she wondered where the hell this conversation was going. “Yup,” she replied, popping the P before she took another bite out of her sandwich. 

Nys’, “You seemed pretty pissed at Zet when you both came in last night,” earned a dismissive shrug, so she continued on to muse, “Did it have anything to do with him wanting to sell guns all of a sudden?”

She chewed slowly, pensively, considering her next words. Wiping the crumbs from the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand, she said, “It’s because he almost got himself killed and I drained my magic shielding him.” The last bit of her sandwich was stuffed into her mouth. Around the sliced meat, veggies, and bread, she muttered a muffled, “ _I haffen to aree wif ‘im on deh guhn ting._ ”

She wiped her mouth on the back of her arm then bought herself some time by chugging down some more water. Ozena could tell by the way Nys tilted her head, her black hair falling over her shoulder and bright yellow eyes narrowing, that she didn’t quite believe her. And how could she? The whole running guns shtik came so out of the blue that it was a yet undiscovered shade of azure. If they hadn’t signed that deal that kept her brother out of prison and her out of a Circle, there was no fucking way that either of them would have thought that the solution to the MC’s problems was to turn outlaw and start arms dealing. Talk about going 0-100 at breakneck speeds. 

Lives and freedom signed over to a couple of humans with some fancy badges and titles, their options were limited to Bad and Worse. Since it was her fault that they were even in this fucking mess, there was no way that she was going to let Zet shoulder the weight of it on his own. As far as the club was concerned, she came up with the idea herself, all on her own, and convinced Zet it was the best thing for all of them. 

It was more believable that way, anyway. She was the reckless one, impulsive and short fused. Her twin? He didn’t needlessly risk the club, especially not for an easy payout. 

Sounding incredulous, Nys investigated, “You think running guns is a good idea?”

“I think that after last night we are going to have a tough time lining up work. Our rep is what keeps the lights on, and our client fucking died.”

Thoughtful silence joined them for a beat before Nys carefully prompted, “Do you know why I joined Valo-Kas after leaving the Crows?” To Ozena’s answering silence, she supplied, “Because, even if most of our clients are shitty people, I get to go to sleep knowing that I’ve done a modicum of good.”

She searched Nysris’ canary yellow eyes, and her own deep well of bullshit, for a reason why gun running was morally ambiguous enough to keep her conscious crystal clear. Coming up blank, she said instead, “Vercer’s falling behind on child support payments. River’s sister is sick again and, with how things have been, they’re gonna have to sell their place to move in with her and take care of her full time. And I know you’ve heard about Leah’s disability benefits falling through,” she stated quietly yet firmly, naming Ashir’s wife and ignoring her guilt in doing so. “The club isn’t working well paying jobs regularly enough for our members to provide for their families. And, after last night...” Ozena shrugged and shook her head, unable to pin down the words to express how fucked they’d be if their main source of income was at all affected by the previous night’s disaster. 

Nys seemed to understand anyway. Her brows furrowed and her expression became contemplative. She didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to say anything. She cared about the club as much as Ozena did; which added an extra thick layer of shittiness to the whole conversation. 

After another sip of water, she screwed the cap back on, holding Nys’ bright, sunflower yellow gaze as she commented, “It might not be the moral high ground, Nys, but we have to start taking care of our own people. You’re treasurer, you know better than anyone that we’ve been barely scraping by for a while now. With everything that happened, we might not be able to manage even that.” Ozena’s features bunched thoughtfully, cautiously, and she said, “Your conscious may be clear, but Ash’s kids are hungry.”

A long pause followed the words. “Is this really the direction you think the club should go in?” she asked, expression open, tone inquisitive. 

This was a deciding moment, she realized, and maybe her only chance to sway Nys to their side. She paused, pretending to consider before she nodded in answer. “I know what we stand to lose if we get caught. I just think that what we stand to gain is worth the risk.” 

They stared at each other for a moment, neither of them saying a word. After a beat, Nysris closed the discussion with a sigh. She sat upright and scooted herself off of Ozena’s bed, standing up. When she looked at her again there was expectation in the way she arched her eyebrows. 

“Come on,” she said, nodding toward the door. “Let’s grab you more grub.”

She stood from her desk chair and grabbed her dirty dish to take with her, nodding for Nys to lead the way. They left her room in silence, just an understanding look exchanged between them, and followed the sound of Dev’s roaring laughter toward the common area. Once there they separated, Ozena to the kitchen, and Nys to plop down on the sofa beside River. 

When she heard the black skinned half-vashoth ask, “How’s your sister, Riv?” she looked up to meet her twin’s stare; which was already on her. Ozet was hanging out by the bar with some of the other members, watching her warily, with regret in his amethyst gaze. She glanced at the bruise on his cheek, just under his eye, and clenched her jaw.

Ozena nodded once, the words unnecessary between them. Divide and conquer was the name of the game. They’d both talk to the other members of Valo-Kas and say whatever they had to to convince them to vote guns in at church tomorrow. First they’d give that scarred lipped fucker what he wanted, then they’d figure out a way out of this mess. They had until tomorrow night to get a majority vote, and she wasn’t going to waste any time with guilt. 

She had shit to do.


	6. The Lengths We'll Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, MoShir. This one's for you <3

###  **Nysris**

“Hold Still.”

She frowned at the tug that yanked her head back in reprimand. Removing the lollipop from her mouth, Nysris grumbled, “My ass is falling asleep.” She shut her eyes when Dev gave her hair another unsympathetic tug. Her huff was dispassionate but, having settled into her new position, she shoved her lollipop back into her mouth and waited for the dwarf to finish doing his thing. 

Prompting him to put his Hairdresser hat on had been last minute and, since they had less than ten minutes before they had to hit the road, Dev was allowed to be a little surly about the time crunch. Then again, he could have just said no when she’d asked him to braid her hair. 

Nys’ snort was internal. The smirk around her lollipop stick? Not so much. He couldn’t have said no and she damn well knew it. 

Devlon’s ultimate weakness was his passion for braiding hair. It was the one thing he couldn’t say no to. Especially not if it was someone he cared about doing the asking. Then he was all  _ -grumble, grumble- ‘couldn’t’ve asked me sooner’ -grumble, grumble- ‘want your silk pillows fluffed while I’m at it? Nug humping blighter,' _ while braiding his sweet, dwarven heart out. 

If Nys was the type of person prone toward self reflection she might have admitted that she  _ could _ have asked him sooner. Not only that, she probably should have, too, but Dev had looked ansty; like he needed to keep his hands busy and his thoughts far away from whatever had him glaring a hole into the ground. 

He’d been jumpy all morning, bouncing around between short fused hostility and unresponsive catatonia. It wasn’t the job that had him playing emotional hopscotch. They were doing security for a photographer’s grand debut at a gallery in Redcliffe. Unless art had murdered his family, Nys felt safe blaming his hair trigger on the whole gun running thing. Tomorrow, when they got back from the job in Redcliffe, they’d vote on it and decide the club’s fate. By the ache in her scalp, she was guessing the Road Captain’s vote was a firm, resounding  _ NO. _

Unfortunately, Nys’ mind wasn’t as easily made. After her talk with Zen yesterday she’d done her rounds. Touching base with the other members confirmed everything that the youngest Adaar had said. 

Without Leah’s welfare benefits, Ashir was going to struggle to keep his family fed and a roof over their heads on whatever money he brought in from the club. River’s sister was too sick to take care of herself this time around. If they couldn’t find a way to afford a caregiver to pick up the slack when they couldn’t be around, they’d have to find a stable job with consistent pay and insurance; which could mean stepping away from the MC altogether. Then there was Vercer and his Baby Mama Drama. Or as he lovingly put it: the blood sucking she-devil bitch that wouldn’t be happy until he was homeless, sucking dick under bridges to pay child support. Apparently he’d been denied joint custody and was grateful to at least have visitation. 

Zen hadn’t mentioned it, but a little detective work on her end had brought to light that Eema had moved in with Dev not that long ago. It was either that or an alienage and that was a hole Eems had already clawed her way out of once before. She knew her friend well enough to know she’d sooner die than go back to that life. 

Valo-Kas was hurting. They needed a change. They needed guns. Whatever her reservations, Nys wasn’t going to reject something that would save her family. Yeah, the double edge of that sword was that this was just as likely to damn them, but she’d spend the rest of her life in the slammer if it meant some fucking stability for the rest of her people. 

It was no less than she deserved, anyway. 

“There,” grunted Devlon, tying a band around the end of the last braid. “All done. You and your ass survived.”

Once the braid fell into place, Nys lifted herself from the ground in front of the couch that Dev was seated on, knees spread to make room for her, and groaned, “The lack of feeling in my ass says otherwise.”

A loud clap filled the common area, a crack of thunder that bounced off of the walls. As Nysris hopped around, both hands on her asscheek, whimpering a breathless, “ _ Owowowow _ ,” Zen shook her hand out as she threw her head back and cackled. 

She fell back into the couch cushions, wiped at the corner of her eye, and coughed out a staggered, “D-did you feel that?”

Rubbing the sting from her asscheek, Nys turned a glare onto Zen. Teeth bared, she hissed, “How about I give  _ you _ something to feel, Adaar?” She didn’t give Zen a chance to recover from her laugh before she launched herself at the taller female, landing in her lap and attacking her ticklish spots. 

When Zen shouted a protest and retaliated in kind, Dev shifted away from their jerking elbows, grousing, “Careful with her braids. I just did those.”

Someone whistled an encouragment as Vercer shouted, “Fuck ‘er up, Nys!” only for Ozena to lift them both off of the sofa and throw her onto the floor. 

Legs and arms wrapped around Zen’s waist and neck, Nys took her down with her. Cheers erupted from the rest of Valo-Kas, who drew in closer to trade bets as they watched them roll around on the ground. Tickling gave way to an all out wrestling match; which Nys took swift control of. Zen had her on size and weight but those were her disadvantages, too. 

It was effortless to twist out from Zen’s hold, bucking and rolling before she grabbed a hold of Zen’s arm, pinned the larger female in an awkward hold, and secured her wrist in a wordless threat to dislocate her shoulder if she struggled. Not that Zen couldn’t break the hold if she wanted to. Nysris had shown her how. 

Before an attempt could be made, someone grabbed a hold of her horn and tugged her head back to look up at them. An innocent grimace of a smile eased over her mouth at the sight of Shokrakar’s raised eyebrow. Around them, Valo-Kas grumbled their disappointment in having the bell rung early and their entertainment cut short. 

“She started it?” Nys offered up to the president, innocent simper-wince still affixed to her lips. At Shok’s commanding eyebrow raise, she released her hold of Ozena’s arm, held up placating hands, and only protested with a murmured, “Hey, easy, watch the hair,” when Shok pulled her up to her feet by her horn. 

Shokrakar’s tone was as long suffering as her exhale when she said, “If you children are done,” she looked around at the inadequately shamefaced MC, “we’ve a long ride ahead of us and I’d like to hit the road.”

“We were waiting on you, Prez,” said Nys with a grin, her hand outstretched to help Zen onto her feet. “Lose track of time waxing your horns again?”

Not particularly amused, Shok shook her head, inhaled deeply, and pushed through the smirking MC for the exit. “Wait no longer, kiddos. Let’s ride.”

Brushing herself off, Ozena gave Shok’s back a mischievous look before dropping her amethyst gaze onto her. “I almost had you that time,” she said with a grin and a wink only for her twin to interject with a pointed  _ pffft _ .

“Not even close,” he rebuked, yanking her horn as he passed, rushing out of reach before Zen could retaliate. 

She glared at her retreating brother for a second before turning a smirk back onto Nys. “Rematch later?”

“How the hell else are you going to learn?”

Zen shrugged in careless answer. She leaned down to tap her brow to Nys’ in an affectionate headbutt she still wasn’t entirely used to. Some instinctive part of her welcomed it, her prominent vashoth half reaching out to welcome the love language of her people. A long history of being touch starved made the abundance of touch within Valo-Kas stifling sometimes. 

Sometimes all she wanted was to pile up together in a huge snuggle sesh. And then there were the times she’d rather peel off her own skin than be touched by  _ anyone _ , even them. Especially them.

Since thinking about it too much --or at all-- made her uncomfortable, Nys allowed Eema to step into the spotlight of her focus, acknowledging the blonde’s approving nod with a grin. “Come to congratulate the reigning champ on yet another flawless victory?”

She signed a quick, ‘ _ Am I supposed to be impressed? _ ’

“By my prowess? Definitely.” When Eema merely rolled her eyes and shook her had in dismissal, Nys draped an arm across her shoulders and walked with her toward the exit. “It’s okay, Eems. You don’t have to say anything. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve made you speechless.”

Eema elbowed her in the ribs before ducking out from under her arm and out the door onto the parking lot where their bikes were waiting. She blindly flung a vulgar hand gesture over her shoulder without looking back at her; not mad, just not wanting to stick around for the endless stream of mute jokes she’d almost been subjected to. 

It was fine. It was a long way to Redcliffe and Nysris had nearly five hours to think of something good. 

She made a show of rubbing at her side when she settled onto the bike beside Eema’s. There was a promise in the wink she shot at the half elf. When it was met by another eyeroll she chuckled and revved her motorcycle’s engine. The thought of the ride ahead of them eased something in her. If things were about to get tense for the MC she planned on making the most of the calm before the shitstorm. 

* * *

###  **Dorian**

One last ring transitioned into an infuriatingly familiar, “ _ You have reached the voicemail box of… _ ”

He waited for the mechanical female voice to relay her instructions, anticipating the aforementioned beep so that he could leave yet another voice message amidst the accumulating stache.

Gaze pointed through the tinted glass to stare unseeingly at the unremarkable cityscape that blurred past, when that dreaded beep peeled in his ear, Dorian kept his voice calm, the message concise. 

“Livia, either you are avoiding me, or something has happened. You know that I can’t leave until we’ve spoken. Call me back.”

The device dropped away from his ear as he thumbed the End Call button. A sigh flattened his chest and Dorian felt over the manicured hairs of his mustache. There was concern tangled up somewhere behind his breastbone, though it was too entwined with annoyance for him to indulge it independently. 

Yes, he had somewhat cornered Livia by coming to Ferelden to begin with, but he had needed a cover and this intended conversation was long overdue at any rate. Dorian had the sense that she was avoiding it and him. The longer his messages and calls went ignored, however, the hotter the embers of his worry smoldered. 

He wouldn’t have minded if she would have at least acknowledged his attempts with a courteous, ‘ _ Apologies, Dorian, I have no desire to interact with you either mobily or in person. Should that cease to be the case I shall endeavor to reopen lines of communication. Until such a time, farewell _ .’ This abrupt, inconsiderate, ‘ghosting’ was beneath them. Not to mention a wrench in his carefully crafted plan to derail the plotted course his life was taking. 

Thumb and forefinger smoothing over his mustache, Dorian continued to absentmindedly stare out the window. He put away thoughts of Livia Herathinos and the unsaid words that would need to be said sooner rather than later. His business with her was personal. His business in Redcliffe was political… Well, potentially. 

Felix’s message had been cryptic, but there was no mistaking his urgency. 

They’d exchanged emails wrought with the same code they’d used as boys. The first had risen red flags. Dozens of them. Alexi and his son were as good as family. Better in some regards. When he’d beckoned Dorian to Ferelden, he’d come running. If nothing else, the trip was worth it if for no other reason than to put his concerns to bed. 

According to their last exchange, Alexi had business in Redcliffe and had liberated Felix to explore the town. As per Felix’s request, Dorian was en route to an art gallery in the DownTown area. According to his friend, an elven photographer was debuting, and it would be the perfect cover for them to meet unsupervised. 

His expectations for the showcase were low, but it would be worth viewing drab Fereden “art” if it meant seeing his friend. As Dorian shifted in his seat and straightened out his suit jacket, he recognized the nerves bubbling up to the surface, along with curiosity and trepidation. For Felix to have made this request at all…

The driver pulled up to a red brick building with wide bay windows that revealed a rather industrial looking interior, with its fluorescent bulbs, exposed scaffolding, and old looking pipes that crept out of and up the continued red brick theme. It was an exposition on urban luxury, a three story statement piece of melded eras, social classes, and the conjecture concept of art. 

Or it was just an old building in an old district that had a different kind of life breathed into it than the boutiques and office buildings that surrounded it on all sides. He wasn’t an architect by any stretch of the imagination, but Dorian could appreciate the moss covered exterior all the same. If he knew nothing of industry or of art, he still would have been hard pressed to find a better venue to debut a blossoming creative. 

Thumb pressing down on the release, his seat-belt slid into its compartment with a hiss. His attention left the whole of the building to focus on the leather clad thugs that patrolled the perimeter. There was a qunari stationed at the entrance, well defined arms crossed over her chest as she sneered at passersby in wordless assurance that all trouble ended at the door; like a coat check for bad intentions. The aggressive gait of a stout man with braided ashe blond hair stacked on top of his head, marching in a line in front of the venue snatched up Dorian’s gaze, who watched on, warily taking in the design on the back of his leather vest. 

A banner that curved across his shoulder blades read  _ VALO-KAS _ in thick, bold script. Another banner on the bottom of his vest, curving up along the small of his back, had  _ AMARANTHINE _ in similar font. Between both, centered on the back of the vest, was a single greatsword thrust skyward and surrounded on either side by a bouquet of dahlias, snapdragons, and wildflowers. He was surprised and impressed in equal parts that the design managed to be both elegant and threatening, beautiful in the same way a venomous snake was beautiful.

“Thank you,” muttered Dorian as he gripped the handle and pulled in the same motion as he pushed the door open. He didn’t look back at the driver as he stepped out of the car and onto the sidewalk, exchanging well wishes for a good night in kind. Glancing away from the biker gang prowling out front, Dorian observed the whole of the building with a deep, steadying inhale, adjusting the collar of his shirt, then his cufflinks before striding toward the entrance. 

The qunari at the door was larger than he’d initially thought. Taller than him, he realized as he came to stand in front of her. Allowing a polite smile to pull subtly at the edges of his mouth, he nodded a greeting. Her violet eyes narrowed on him, her own mouth tightening to a hard line as she inspected him from his perfectly coiffed hair to his polished, Antivan leather loafers, then back up again. Unimpressed to the point of rancor, her top lip curled into a sneer. 

There was a vague threat in her, “Enjoy the exhibit,” that had him scurrying past her in a rush. 

With her as the doorman --woman? Person?-- he sincerely doubted anyone with malicious intentions would have the nerve to step through the front door, much less approach the building to begin with. She was nearly six and a half feet of indomitable force, less malleable than the brick building she guarded. Noting the tattoo that travelled from her bottom lip, down her chin to branch out at her neck and clavicle, he had to wonder why in the Maker’s name an art exhibition would need such tight security. Or security at all. 

Once he stepped away from the entrance and into the crowd he had his answer. Either the photographer was elven, or they were moved by the elven plight. On every available space on every wall were black and white images of sad looking elven children playing in litter strewn streets, of women in doorways with babies on their hips and toddlers hiding behind their legs, teenagers smoking and flashing gang signs. Amidst all the heartbreaking grey was the occasional colorful image of people laughing, of families and friends, joy beside hardship, resilience and community in the face of oppression. These images were breathtaking, inspired, a bridge between presumption and truth. 

The elves in these images were people, and Dorian could understand why that would seem threatening to some. It wasn’t until his attention was snagged by the black and white photograph of a dity elven child, dressed in a ratty shirt and a diaper that looked like it needed changing, dragging around a matted stuffed animal as he sucked on his thumb, that he was forcibly faced with his own role in the destitution of the less fortunate. 

It was an effort to pry his attention from the photographs to search the gallery for Felix. Wine, of course, was what drew his focus. He plucked a glass from the tray as it passed him by, balanced on the shoulder of a smartly dressed server. He nersed the wine as he strode through the gallery, inexplicably disappointed by its taste when he truly should have known better. 

Head tilted as he examined a photograph of a pair of sneakers hanging from a powerline, Dorian was snatched away from his introspection by the familiar voice that spoke over the gallery’s din. 

“Incredible how the photographer is able to capture such emotion in a candid shot of an empty street, isn’t it?”

He turned just as the man approached, a grin already taking hold of his lips before he was fully facing him. Pleasure washed over him, warm and comforting. Dorian spread his arms with a boisterous, “Felix, my friend. I was starting to fear that you had some altruistic motives in luring me here under the guise of a clandestine meeting.”

Mindful of his wine glass, Felix stepped into the circle of Dorian’s arms and embraced him with all the warmth of a brother. There was a laugh in his voice as he replied, “When all else fails - ambush sensitivity training.” They pulled apart but Felix held him by his shoulders and stared until a grin took his features. “It’s good to see you, Dorian.”

He raised his eyebrows in question, but instead of launching straight into his investigation, Dorian smoothly, gladly, returned the sentiment. “Likewise, old friend,” he said, a small smile flitting across his mouth. Looking at Felix, truly  _ looking _ at him, he noticed the shadows under his brother’s eyes, his sallow features, and eyes once so full of life, laughter, were now dulled by pain, watery with an exhaustion that no amount of rest could lift. 

When he observed, “You’re looking well,” Felix scoffed. 

“Ah. Deception: the truest staple of House Pavus.”

Felix’s hands dropped from his shoulders and Dorian offered him a small smile. It would be simple to fall into their easy repartee, to oblige Felix in his obvious desire to deflect any attention turned his way. The problem with that was that it had been weeks since he’d last seen either Felix or his father. Perhaps longer, considering how time seemed to rush past if left unattended while they each immersed themselves in their research. He was worse than when Dorian had last seen him, but better than he could have been at this stage in his illness. To temper his ever present worry he had to ask. He had to know.

“How are you feeling?”

His shoulders jerked, unperturbed. Felix turned on his heel, held his hand behind his back, and started down an aimless path through the gallery. As Dorian fell into step beside him, he deigned to answer. “As with all things, there are good days and there are bad days.” He looked to the surrounding photography in blatant refusal to meet Dorian’s inquisitive gaze as he continued, “The good days are manageable. The bad days…” He turned his head and squinted his eyes at a photograph as they passed, murmuring, “Considerably less so.”

Dorian didn’t answer. He didn’t know how. There were no words of comfort to offer his oldest, dearest, most treasured friend. None that Felix would find agreeable at any rate. So they walked together in silence for a few steps and all Dorian could do was tenderly muse at what a pair they made. Him dressed in a tailored suit, the grey a complement to the lavender dress shirt beneath; both flattering his complexion in a way not even the hanging bulbs could obstruct. Beside him, Felix was comparably casual. Though there was no disguising the refined palate of a Magister’s son. His distressed jeans were designer, as were the hoodie and the leather jacket atop it. Felix’s tennis shoes were as expensive as Dorian’s loafers. 

You could take the Vint out of Tevinter… 

“What’s this about, Felix,” he finally asked. “Why all the secrecy?”

A deep breath filled his lungs and Felix paused their meandering path to look around their immediate space. Reassured by their veneer of privacy, Felix supplied, “It’s father.” He looked away and shook his head, genuine concern guttering in his eyes. “What he’s doing in Ferelden… I don’t entirely know what manner of business he has here, but he’s been secretive and distant, paranoid to the point of delusion.”

Taken aback, Dorian blinked. “What do you mean?”

Felix looked around again. He took a step closer to him, murmuring low so only he could hear. “I don’t have much time, but I need your help, Dor. He’s become obsessed with finding a cure for me and, somehow, it’s led him here. His contacts… I don’t know who they are, but I think they have something to do with the Order.”

“The Order,” Dorian repeated. “The  _ Templar _ Order?” When Felix nodded he investigated further. “Why would you think your father has anything to do with the Templars? And how would that have anything to do with a cure?”

“I overheard one of his phone calls,” explained the other mage, looking harried now. “He said something about bypassing the Chantry for a lyrium supply. I don’t know how or if it’s truly related to finding a cure for me. I just know that he’s assigned a ‘protection detail’ to me, which I had to lose to keep from being followed here.”

All of which was admittedly strange, but his confusion remained steadfast. “What do you want  _ me _ to do?”

“Help me uncover and interrupt his plans, whatever they are.”

“Felix--”

“I don’t know what he’s involved in, Dorian, but I know in my gut that it’s bad. I’d do it myself but these days he handles me like I’m made of glass. The last thing I want to do is to involve you in this. I know how much he means to you, to both of us. If there was anyone else that knew my father as well as you, that I trusted nearly as much--”

“I still would have come running,” Dorian interjected, placing a hand on Felix’s shoulder. “You are my brother. I can make bold claims of an unquestionable willingness to do anything for you, but if I don’t act when you need me then why bother with the facade?”

An appreciative smile took tentative possession of his mouth. “I think he may be trying to disrupt the Circles by weakening the Order. Maybe you could, I don’t know, speak with the leaders of Kinloch Hold--”

_ About what? _ He wanted to ask. What was he even looking for, what reason could he possibly give to drop by the Tower? Before he could demand that they slap together a plan that didn’t hinge on malformed suspicions and a prayer, Felix pulled his phone from his pocket and glanced down at the screen with a curse. 

“I have to go, Dor. Thank you for meeting me. I’ll update you with anything useful I find on my end.”

Felix’s departing smile was apologetic. He squeezed Dorian’s hand before twisting around and hurrying for an exit, ignoring Dorian as he called after him. For a sick man he was light on his feet. He tried to follow after him, walking through the gallery and weaving between the other attendants in a blind rush. Dorian barely noticed the caterers as he stepped into the kitchen and made a beeline for the open back door. 

Cold night air greeted him, the breeze sour with the stench of bagged refuse in the nearby dumpsters and trash cans. He looked up and down the back alley and found no sign of Felix anywhere. He was gone, and Dorian was left with more questions than answers, and zero idea as to how he helped his best friend uncover the truth about his father. 

Sighing a resigned breath, he shook his head and decided that the best solution to these problems was a stiff drink and a good night’s rest. Dorian turned to reenter the gallery. Hand in his pocket to retrieve his phone and summon a car to take him back to the hotel, he was unable to stop himself from running face first into a wall of solid muscle. The wine glass he’d forgotten he was still holding onto splashed down the front of his suit jacket as he was buffeted a foot backwards by the firm chest he’d just collided with. 

“ _ Kaffas _ ,” he cursed, looking mournfully down at the stain as he whipped the spilled wine from his fingers. Dorian peered up at this blocked path with a biting snub at the ready, but the words died in his mouth and his annoyance was snuffed out by surprise. Dorian said an eloquent, “Oh,” as he took in the sight of the massive qunari that shadowed the entire doorway, too tall and wide to even occupy the space. He must have literally ducked through to stand tall just outside of the exit. 

He blinked as the gears in his head snagged on his astonishment and struggled to gracefully process the sight in front of him. It wasn’t as if this was the first time that he’d ever seen a qunari. With the ongoing skirmishes with Seheron, he’d laid eyes on more than a few. Just… not typically this close. 

The man before him was tall, imposing, a granite hewn statue and the crowning achievement of a master sculptor's life work. He had to be nearly seven feet tall, and looked to be somewhere around three hundred pounds of pure muscle by his educated guess. Wide set shoulders blockaded the entirety of the doorway behind him and the fit of his jeans spoke to the narrow waist hidden under his leather vest. Backlit by the kitchen lights, and with only the dim orange glow of the streetlamp at the far end of the alley to light his face, it took a second longer for his features to register. 

There was nothing about the qunari that didn’t exude strength. It was pronounced in his prominent brow and broad nose, which was bent near the bridge from a break that had been left to heal wrong. His lips were full, the bottom tattooed with a line that ran down his chin, onto his neck in a design reminiscent of the woman who’d been watching the front door. High cheekbones were accompanied by a square jaw that was set with the same impassivity that shone in his bored violet gaze. There was a scar that cut from the corner of his mouth to his jaw, and another that slashed through a thick eyebrow. 

Rather impressive horns protruded from his brow and curled in wide loops that framed his face. Shiny strands of silken silver reflected the streetlight’s orange glow, looking to have an almost coppery tinge as it cascaded over his shoulders and onto his expansive chest. 

Even placid he was intimidating, indomitable, a force of nature like a violent storm brewing on the horizon. 

Dorian cleared his throat then shook himself back into focus. “Do you have any intention of letting me pass, or am I to answer a riddle first?”

An amused exhale huffed out of the man. He cocked an eyebrow and the corner of his mouth twitched. When he licked his lips the smirk that had been hinting at the edges was gone. He spoke and the robust baritone of his voice was rich and smooth, with a bass that Dorian could feel in his rib cage. 

“What’s easy to get into, but hard to get out of?”

Brows shooting for his hairline, Dorian gaped, bemused. Having a riddle pelted his way was genuinely the last thing he’d expected; regardless of having technically invited the man to do just that. A growled brush off, dismissive grunt, silent glower? All the things he would have been prepared for, would have known how to react to. The goliath horned male humoring his quip hadn’t occurred to him as a possibility. 

He gave the qunari a bewildered up and down, examining him from his scuffed and dusty motorcycle boots, up the dark wash of his jeans, the print of the flannel under his black leather vest, all the way up to those startling ametrine eyes. The answer to the riddle felt like a strangely apt description of the man standing in front of him. He couldn’t say why he felt that way, only that he knew in his gut that nothing had ever felt more appropriate. 

“The same thing I don’t want any of tonight: trouble.”

This time when the corner of his mouth twitched, the qunari allowed his amusement to fully surface. His mouth tugged into a half smirk that made something in his chest constrict. He turned his body to the side. A jerk of his chin motioned for Dorian to step through the door. 

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” he rubled, reminding him again of both the wine glass in his hand and the stain setting into his suit jacket. 

“Oh. That’s fine. I’ll just--” he stopped himself from mentioning magic, “take it to a dry cleaner in the morning.”

“They’ll have an easier go of it if you soak it now.”

The shrug that followed had a distinct ‘ _ your call _ ’ to its bounce. A smooth refusal would have been the wise move to get him back on his way, and yet Dorian found himself saying, “I suppose I can’t argue with sound logic.”

“I mean,” the man’s lopsided smirk stretched further over his full lips, “You  _ could _ . Plenty of people do.”

Dorian felt the edges of his own mouth tighten with humor. As he strode past the qunari, back into the kitchen, he glanced up at him sidelong and marvelled all over again at how tall he was while muttering, “Far be it from me to conform to the antiquated pressures of society.”

Another huffed laugh exhaled from the man as he trailed him into the kitchen. He hailed one of the catering staff, who ogled up at him with a nervous, wide eyed look that Dorian could sympathize with. “I knocked wine onto this gentleman’s suit jacket. Any way you could help me out with some dish detergent and hydrogen peroxide?” rumbled the qunari in his smooth as bourbon baritone. 

The girl swallowed hard, blinked harder, her head angled fully back to look him in the eye. She dragged out a distant, “ _ Uhhh _ ,” before she’d gathered herself enough to process his request. “Oh,” she said, the blink dropping her focus onto Dorian to examine the stain in question. The smile she summoned was polite as she assured them, “It happens all the time. Give me a sec and I’ll be back with what you need!”

When she held her hand out, he followed her gaze to the glass and happily handed it off to her. After the qunari nodded in silent thanks the girl turned on her heel to fetch the requested ingredients and Dorian said to her back, “Thank you for your help,” as he shrugged out of his suit jacket.

The silence that joined them was near enough to awkward for him to break it with a casual, “So,” before he cleared his throat and set the jacket down on the counter nearest to them. Dorian fixed his cufflinks then his collar before he rested his hip on the counter’s edge and folded his arms in front of his chest. When he looked at the qunari again he somehow forgot their size differences, because he was met with the male’s broad chest instead of his face. He noted the patches on the front of his vest. 

Over the right breast pocket was a small banner that read  _ VICE PRESIDENT _ which sat on top of another that had the qunlat word  _ KATARI _ . On the opposite breast pocket were two more patches. The first was another word in qunlat,  _ RETHSAAM _ over another patch that said,  _ ORIGINAL _ .

He glanced up from his chest with an intrigued, “I don’t think I caught your name.”

The smirk he offered in reply was electrifying. “Ozet,” he answered, extending a massive hand between them. “Zet to my friends.”

Slotting his hand in Ozet’s, he tried not to think about the size of his fingers or the strength of his grip. “Dorian Pavus,” he returned, feeling unfamiliar warmth around his collar. “I don’t really go by anything else so you can call me Dorian.”

“Fair enough,” he replied, voice rumbling with amusement. He released his hand and shoved his own into his pockets. 

Before silence could vie for a space in their conversation, Dorian nodded at the patches on the taller man’s vest. “Is your… crew?... working security for the event or the venue?”

Ozet glanced down at himself before meeting Dorian’s gaze again, a laugh in his eyes despite the quirked eyebrow. “Club,” he corrected, smirking. “We’re a motorcycle club, and we’re here for the event specifically.”

“Expecting trouble?”

The smirk on Ozet’s lips, and the flash of a laugh in his eyes, made him feel like they’d just shared a joke. He shrugged, supplying, “Not a lot of racial diversity in this part of Redcliffe. An elven photographer showcasing provocative alienage pieces,” he arched a meaningful eyebrow. “It’s bound to stir up some strong feelings.”

After a pensive moment he opened his mouth to respond but was cut off by the server’s reappearance. She handed the items to Ozet with a smile and curious, “Need any help?”

Ozet shook his head, gently dismissing her, “I think we’ve got it from here.”

“Okay,” she returned, smile a bit dimmer. “Well, shout if you need anything else.”

They both thanked her again and, once she was out of sight, Ozet started to pour his concoction onto the suit jacket spread over the countertop. Without looking at Dorian, the silver haired male stated, “I just realized that you didn’t get to enjoy your wine because of me.”

He was a breath away from replying, ‘ _ Oh, there was very little to enjoy about the wine _ ,’ when he decided to instead say, “The least of your crimes against me tonight, if we’re being honest.”

The laugh that rumbled from Ozet was so deep that Dorian felt it in his own chest. Soaking his suit jacket with the soapy water cocktail, he finally slid those piercing lilac eyes onto him. “Let me make it up to you,” he said, pinning Dorian into place under his gaze. “There’s a dive down the road. Join me for some drinks?”

Taken aback, Dorian frowned. “I--”  _ shouldn’t _ , he knew he should finish. ‘ _ I should head back to my hotel. My fiance is ignoring my calls and my best friend is wrapped up in a conspiracy theory about his own father. Lots to do.’ _ Instead of any number of excuses and refusals, he found himself saying, “I think… I would like that, actually.”

Ozet’s responding grin silenced the voice in his head questioning his sanity. A voice that sounded an awful lot like his own teased, “It’s an expensive suit. I may have to rack up quite the tab to keep things fair.” The heat gathering behind his collar was almost worth it at the sight of another one of his smiles. 

“Whatever I have to do to compensate you for the trouble, Mr. Pavus.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's also for anyone else who's reading this fic.


	7. The Gull and Lantern

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Law enforcement in modern day Thedas is the same as canon, in the sense that city guards work the same way as the police department. That being the case, the acronym for the law enforcement in Kirkwall, for example, would be: KCG (Kirkwall City Guard). 
> 
> This will probably be more important in future chapters, but it was worth establishing now.

###  **Ozet**

As grey eyes took his measure, Zet knew that this was a bad idea. He was on a job. Tomorrow the club would vote and his life would change one way or the other. Drinks was a bad idea. Drinks with _him_? Worse. It was a distraction he couldn’t afford. And yet…

When those coal lined, grey eyes met his again Zet was ensnared by the shrewdness of them, the unquestionable intellect that gave his GED all the substance of toilet tissue. The way he talked, the way he dressed, the cool air of confidence that fit him better than those grey slacks, he clearly came from money and had the education to match. They couldn’t have less in common. All adding alcohol to the mix would do was make them drunk on top of incompatible. 

Smoothing his forefingers over his mustache, Dorian hid a grimace behind his hand before muttering, “It hadn’t occurred to me how much I dislike ‘Mr. Pavus’ until just now.” He refolded his arms in front of his lavender dress shirt, and stared up at him with those humorous gunmetal eyes. “Feel free to never call me that again. Just Dorian, if you don’t mind.”

Zet lifted indifferent shoulders, features trained to neutrality despite the smirk he felt vying for a foothold. “If that’s what you prefer.”

“It is.”

“Alright, Dorian.” His smirk finally surfaced. “Any other preferences I should know about before we get out of here?”

An immaculate eyebrow cocked and Dorian’s gaze swept over him again. “Zinfandel,” he supplied, eyes lifting to meet Zet’s. “Though I’ll settle for a cabernet sauvignon if starved for an alternative.”

He replied with a slow nod, features schooled again to impassivity. Zet hadn’t missed the way Dorian had looked at him, or the evasion of an answer that matched the question’s purred tone. The human was still getting a sense for him, and Zet should have taken the chance to take back his invitation for drinks. He could have called the night off with a short, ‘ _How many dives carry zinfandel where you come from?’_ They’d go their separate ways and never see each other again. No harm, no foul. 

But the words didn’t come, and he couldn’t force himself to say them. 

Dorian was so far out of his league that they weren’t even playing the same sport. But he’d already said yes to drinks. What was one night? The exhibition was going to wrap up soon, and tomorrow morning his bike would be eating up asphalt all the way back to Amaranthine. If he bailed on drinks he’d spend the rest of the night worried about tomorrow’s vote. Dorian was a distraction, and maybe a distraction was the last thing he needed, but he wasn’t going to pretend that it wasn’t exactly he wanted. 

“I get paid _after_ a job’s done,” he muttered, straight faced save for the amusement he could feel warm in his gaze. “Try not to spend my paycheck before I’ve even seen the money.”

Dorian shrugged, his own smirk hidden behind an aloof facade. Expertly manicured eyebrow arched with disinterest, his voice was impassive when he commented, “Something you might have considered before knocking wine into a designer suit.”

His smirk did surface then, lopsided and lupine. _Well, it was the quickest way to get you out of your clothes_ , he nearly rebuffed. Instead, Zet forced his gaze away from Dorian so he could search the kitchen for the girl that had helped them earlier. Their gazes met just as she re-entered the catering team’s hustle and bustle, and he beckoned her over with a wave. A smile greeted her when she set down her tray of empty glasses by the sink and walked over to them. 

“Did you need something?”

“Yes, actually,” answered Zet, friendly smile affixed to his lips. He motioned at the suit jacket and explained, “this is going to need thirty minutes to soak, and I’ll be heading out before then. I was hoping we could leave this here in the meantime, until one of my guys can pick it up for me.”

The smile she’d shot up at him in response to his faded at the request. “You want me to watch your stuff?” she reiterated, brows furrowed, eyes narrow. 

“No,” Dorian interjected, pushing off of the counter he’d been leaning on to join their exchange. “That won’t be necessary. There’s a dry cleaner--”

“Only until one of my guys can take it off your hands.” As Zet reached into his back pocket, he asked, “What’s your name?”

“Nina.”

He opened the fold of his wallet and removed a few bills. “Well, Nina, I know this isn’t usually part of your job, but I’d really appreciate it if you’d do this for me.”

For a beat she stared at the cash, then up at him, then sighed as she took the money and tucked it into a pocket. “I would’ve settled for your number,” she confessed, “But cash works too.”

Zet’s smirk was appreciative. “Thanks, Nina.” He handed Dorian’s suit jacket off to her, nodding gratefully when she walked away to take somewhere it could soak safely.

Beside him, Dorian mused, “I can’t decide if I should be worried about whether or not I’ll ever see that jacket again.” His exhale was slow and resigned. “It’s one of my more versatile items of clothing. As they say, _better to have loved and lost_ …”

Chuckling, amused by Dorian’s flare for the dramatic, Zet rebuked, “Distance makes the heart grow fonder,” before assuring him, “You’ll see it again, I promise.”

Movement at the door to the side alley caught his attention and he looked away from Dorian’s doubtful expression to watch Nys stepping out of the shadows to lean a shoulder against the doorframe. Perfect. She’d saved him the trouble of having to track another member down. 

To Dorian he said, “Give me five minutes and we’ll get out of here.” Zet didn’t wait for a reply before closing the distance between him and the Valo-Kas treasurer, who he greeted by gently bumping his brow to hers, knocking horns. 

“Making friends?” asked Nys, her canary yellow gaze on Dorian, full of suspicion and interest. 

Instead of answering, Zet returned her question with one of his own. “How are things looking?”

“Quiet,” she answered, eyes still on Dorian. “Everyone’s behaving for the most part.”

“Anything I should know about?”

Nysris brushed the question out of the air with a wave of her hand before turning her daffodil colored eyes onto him. “Just a townie with too few brain cells to know when to stop. Zen took care of him before he could make a scene.” To Zet’s cocked eyebrow, she assured him, “She didn’t use force. He’s fine.”

Nodding his acceptance of her briefing, Zet folded his arms in front of his chest. He licked his lips and shifted his stance to block Nys’ view of Dorian; not because he didn’t appreciate the way she was watching him, but because he could feel how badly _he_ wanted to look at him, and he didn’t want to bring any more attention onto the man than Dorian brought onto himself. If he was going to cut out before the job was done, like he planned to, he’d rather Nys not report an attractive, dark haired, russet skinned human to Zen. He’d never hear the end of it. 

“I want you to stick with the client. He doesn’t go anywhere alone. Have Verser and Riv stay late to make sure the photographs are handled properly, and make it back to the studio in one piece.”

“Sure thing, VP. I’ll let the others know.”

“Thank’s Nys.” He lifted a hand from the crook of his bent elbow and absently rubbed the pad of his thumb along his jaw. After a thoughtful moment, he asked, “Where’s Shok?”

Nys shook her head, a single shoulder jerking. “I saw her head out a little while ago. Ashir might know where to. She stopped to talk to him before she went.”

“Alright,” he drawled pensively. Zet dropped his thumb from his face and refocused on the shorter half-vashoth in front of him. “I’m going to track her down. There’s some shit I need to talk with her about before church tomorrow.”

Cocking her head to the side, to look around him to the human observing their exchange, Nys hummed a dubious, “ _Mhm_ ,” before she slid her gaze back onto him, head still listed sideways. “Will that be before or after you leave with the handsome human with the impressive mustache?”

He grabbed her by the horn and straightened her head on her neck again, grumbling, “How about after I kick your ass?” Zet ignored her pout. When she swatted at his hand he released her horn and crossed it over his chest again. “Ash is in charge while I’m gone.” 

“I’m familiar with the pecking order.”

“If anything happens--”

“We’ll call you. It’s been quiet, Z. There’s no reason to think that’ll change, or for all of us to be here. Go ‘track Shok down’ and remember the Three C’s: Concent, Communication, and Condoms.”

“Nys--”

“There’s nothing sexier than safe sex, Ozet.”

“I swear on the Maker, Nysris--”

“That you’ll use lube,” she completed for him, nodding wisely. “Good. I’ve seen your junk, both flaccid and erect--”

“That’s because you never fucking knock--”

“And, honestly, Z, it’s the considerate thing to do. We should add that to our list of C-words.”

“Are you done.”

Pretending he hadn’t said anything, she drummed her fingers on her chin and wondered, “Should Consideration come before or after Condoms?”

The heels of his palms pressed into his eyes as Zet grumbled, “I’m not entirely sure what I did to deserve this.” His sigh was long suffering as he dragged his hands down his face to rub over his mouth. 

“I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again. There are two things that we as a society should be comfortable talking about without fear of judgement or shame: sex and our feelings.”

Zet dropped his hands from his face with a brisque, “I’m gonna go now.”

Cheerfully, Nys rebuked, “Have fun!” She shot him with a finger gun. “And be safe.” a second finger gun joined the first and Nys winked as she blasted him, backing away blindly toward the side door. 

He shook his head as he watched her step backwards out of the kitchen and disappear into the alley’s darkness. Wiping a hand down his face, Zet took a fortifying breath and released it slowly. Sometimes she was worse than his sister. Stick Nys and Zen together and Maker turn his gaze on whatever poor soul found themselves up against that tag-team deathmatch. 

Turning back toward Dorian, Zet smiled apologetically as he strode over to where he was standing. “You ready to head out?” he asked instead of offering an explanation about the conversation he’d just witnessed. 

Dorian nodded but his brows were narrow, his expression tight with concern and hesitation. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah,” answered Zet, his hands shoved into his pockets and his shoulders jerked with a dismissive shrug. “Nys was just busting my balls.”

His grey gaze was on the door Nys had disappeared through. Thoughtfully, almost absently, he stated, “I’ve never seen a qunari with coloring like hers.” Dorian’s attention shifted back onto him and was followed by the question, “Does she have a form of malanism, perhaps?”

Shaking his head, Zet muttered a cool, “Vashoth, and I’ve never asked.”

“Was that rude for me to ask?” wondered Dorian, a look of awkward uncertainty taking hold of his handsome features. “I apologize, I meant no offense. It’s just that… I’m a researcher, and my mind always goes to how things work instead of whether or not it’s appropriate for polite conversation. Your friend seems lovely.”

The terra cotta of Dorian’s complexion warmed significantly as he shifted his weight from foot to foot. He winced at himself slightly, rubbing at the crease between his furrowed brows, subtly shaking his head in internalized admonishment. Zet had to smirk at the range of emotions playing over his expression. It was endearing, the way he stumbled when he was very obviously the type of person to give a shit about things like manners and social etiquette. 

Chuckling softly, he reassured him, “You’re fine, Dorian. No harm done. Don’t worry about it.” He half turned, jerking his chin toward the exit as he gestured for Dorian to lead the way. “Let’s get out of here. I still owe you a drink.”

“ _A_ drink?” he parroted, disapproving. “Social faux pas aside, it’ll take more than a single glass of obscure Ferelden wine to compensate me for the discomfort I’ve endured tonight.” He walked past him anyway, leaving Zet to smile after him as he strode toward the door. 

“How about a bottle?” asked Zet, trailing after him, smirk not budging on inch as he stifled a laugh. 

Dorian peered over his shoulder back at him, muttering, “It’s a start.” He turned his face before his smile fully unravelled. 

He followed him out of the kitchen and into the dark alley, nodding in the street light’s direction to motion the right way. Zet gave the shadowed space between buildings a cursory glance, knowing he wouldn’t spot Nysris in the dark but searching it anyway. It was more than the fact that, thanks to her complexion, she blended right in. Before Nys joined Valo-Kas she’d been a Crow. Sneaking up on people, unseen and unheard, was what she did best. And was why he’d assigned her to their client. 

Thoughts veering hard off course, Zet fished his phone out of his pocket and unlocked the device. Thumbing through his ongoing text chains, he opened the conversation with Zen to relay quick instructions about Dorian’s jacket. He hesitated before hitting send. If Nys had given him a hard time there was no telling the shit Zen would give him for leaving a job early to buy some guy drinks. 

Glancing up from his phone to look briefly at Dorian, he felt the corner of his mouth quirk. He might not know Dorian, but Zet knew for sure that he wasn’t just _some guy_. Dorian was… he didn’t know yet, but he intended to find out. 

He sent the message with a press of his thumb and tucked his phone back into his pocket just as the alley let out onto the sidewalk. When Dorian peered up at him with a sidelong ‘ _Where to now?’_ Zet motioned to the left, swivelling on his heel as he gestured for Dorian to follow. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he pulled in a deep breath of crisp autumn air and enjoyed the comfortable silence that kept pace with them as they walked. 

“So this dive,” Dorian said into the quiet before it could settle. “Have you ever been?”

Zet shook his head. “Haven’t had much cause to visit this part of Redcliffe before. When we pass through, we usually stick to the city’s outskirts.”

“For any reason in particular?”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Valo-Kas is a pretty conspicuous group.”

“Ah, but co-ed. Very progressive.”

He huffed a laugh and gave his smirk free rein as he continued to answer, “Redcliffe might be a city, but it still has that small town mentality. It’s easier to move around without the guard harassing us for looking ‘suspicious’ if we stick to the city limits.”

“I suppose you’re not missing much,” Dorian offered. “Once you’ve seen one anachronic municipality you’ve seen them all.”

“Something like that,” replied Zet, smiling. He looked up at the signage over boutique entrances, at the vinyl lettering scrawled along expansive window panes, and the few other pedestrians that gave him a wide berth. The night was tinged with the scent of spiced meats, baked goods, fresh flowers. Of all his senses it was the weight of distasted glares tracking them as they went that he felt most keenly. There was a subtle tension in the air, an instinctive wariness that spoke to something primal inside him. A ‘ _please don’t come here, sit here, eat here_ ,’ that he could feel whispering to his senses, and he wondered if Dorian felt it, too.

Probably not. An attractive human man like him wasn’t likely to know what it was like to have women clutch their purses tighter, tuck their kids behind them, have men shield their female companions, or be outright denied service somewhere. Zet was too used to it to be bothered by it. There were benefits to being feared on sight, like being left alone. The counterweight to that were the confrontations forced on him for the same reason, but he’d learned to read a room and knew for the most part when to beat feet out of a place before shit got hostile. 

The dive was just around the corner, and Zet was fairly confident that they’d make it there without being stopped on the street for walking down it. He glanced at Dorian again and grinned. “I’m pretty sure that the Mayor’s wife was the first foreigner to move to Redcliffe in twenty years. The tourism industry around these parts isn’t exactly leading-edge, and the locals don’t make it seem like it’s an industry they’re interested in cultivating.” His shrug was dispassionate, unbothered. He wouldn’t be in town long, so what did it matter. 

“I’d say.”

They rounded the corner and he pointed Dorian’s attention to a bar that had a bird balancing on an old-timey lamp on the logo, and “ _Gull and Lantern_ ” emblazoned on the window overlooking the outside seating. The few patrons lounging near the patio heater eyed them curiously as they approached. Zet grabbed the door handle and ignored how conversation hushed as he held it open and waved Dorian through. 

As the door shut behind him, Zet placed a hand at the small of Dorian’s back and motioned toward the bar. He kept stride with the man but moved his hand away when he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. Pulling the device free as they stepped up to the bar, he glanced down at the screen while the bartender helped the patrons at its other end. 

_Do I look like your personal assistant?_

Shaking his head, Zet resisted the urge to roll his eyes as he typed out a reply. _You look like a loving sister who is willing to do the occasional favor for her apologetic and grateful brother._

Her response came in not a minute after he hit ‘send’.

[Zen]: _We need to take you to an optometrist. Your eyesight is fucked._

[Zet]: _I’ll owe you?_

[Zen]: _High credit risk. Loan denied._

[Zet]: _I’ll be your best friend._

[Zen]: _The position has been filled. I’m not accepting applicants at this time._

[Zet]: _Pls?_

[Zen]: … 

[Zet]: _:(_

[Zen]: _Fine._

[Zet]: _Thank you <3 _

[Zen]: _Fuck off._

Amusement huffed from his nostrils and Zet dialed back his smirk as he returned his phone to his pocket. He glanced up to find Dorian watching him curiously. 

“Is everything alright?”

“Yeah,” Zet nodded, smiling reassuringly. 

Before he could explain anything else, the dwarven bartender approached them with a raspy, “What’re ya havin’?”

He nodded a greeting at the dwarf and wondered, “What’s your wine selection like?”

The stout man shrugged. “Zinfandel, pinot grigio, cabernet sauvignon.” He jerked his chin to prompt an order. “Whaddya want?”

Zet glanced down at Dorian and watched him weigh his options, looking a little wistful as he did so. “I don’t suppose there’d be much point in asking for a wine list, would there.” A resigned exhale met the impatient silence that answered his question. “Zinfandel, if you’d be so kind.”

Cutting his gaze onto him, the bartender prodded, “And for you, oxman?”

“Whiskey. Straight.”

The dwarf nodded. “Make yourselves comfortable. My girl will be by with your drinks shortly.”

They murmured a quick thanks and stepped away from the bar. With his hand on the small of Dorian’s back again, he guided him over to a vacant table near the back of the bar, with a view of the exits and other patrons. They eased onto either side of the booth, Zet with a little more effort as his knees knocked into the underside of the table with enough force to jostle and bounce it as he tried to settle into a comfortable position. 

Dorian caught the trifold draft menu before it fell and set it back down with an uncertain, “Would a table be more comfortable?”

“Nope.” He sighed. “This is fine. Only way I’m getting out of this booth now is with the jaws-of-life, so we may as well make the most of it.”

Dorian’s replying smile warmed something behind his sternum. “In that case, I’ll have the helivac on standby.”

He smirked. “I appreciate that.” Just as quiet began to wedge its way into the table and Zet started to ask, “What brings you to--” his question was cut off by the arrival of their drinks.

“Let me know if you need anything,” stated the young human woman as she set their glasses down in front of them. She left with a wink and a wave after they thanked her for the service. 

After a sip of his whiskey, Zet made a reattempt at his question. “What brings you to Redcliffe?”

The man across from him lifted his glass to his nose and swirled the wine a bit. Glancing up from the sloshing contents of his cup, he mused, “What makes you think I’m not _from_ here?”

Shoulders bouncing with his shrug, Zet supplied, “Look around. We’re in farm country. The upper crust around these parts raise cattle and shit. They’re old money. Clearly you’re well off, but I’m willing to bet that your family’s fortune wasn’t made off of generations farming livestock and grain.”

An artfully groomed eyebrow lifted and Dorian took a tentative sip of wine. He made a face but it was hard to tell if he was reacting to the wine or what he’d said. Setting the glass back down on the table, he twisted the stem between his fingers as he met and held his gaze. “That’s awfully presumptuous, don’t you think?” mused Dorian, impassive and aloof.

“Am I wrong?”

“Well, no. But it’s still presumptuous.”

“I prefer observant.”

His nonchalant expression didn’t budge, but there was a teasing glint to Dorian’s grey eyes. “Any other preferences I should know about before we get too deep in our cups?”

Zet felt the corner of his mouth curl into something impish at the familiar sounding question and the look that accompanied it. “Why limit my options?” He shrugged. “I’m down for whatever with whomever. I’m not picky.” Winking, he threw back the whiskey in his glass, appreciative of the oaky heat that warmed his chest before settling in his gut. It wouldn’t have any effect on him, not if he chugged the whole bottle. It took stronger stuff to make him feel so much as buzzed. 

He caught sight of the server and motioned for another drink before letting his focus fall onto Dorian again. Zet’s voice was low when he said, “At the risk of my intentions getting lost in innuendo, gender doesn’t play into attraction for me. So if you want to have drinks and go our separate ways, that’s cool. And if you want to have drinks, get out of here to fool around, and _then_ go our separate ways,” he leaned casually back in his seat. “That’s cool, too.”

Dorian’s eyes were wide. His face flushed. He blinked, blinked again, then shook his head. “That’s…” He took a long pull from his wine glass that turned into chugging that drained every drop. Setting down his cup, he looked thankful when their server approached, and ordered himself another glass. Once she was out of earshot, he tried again. 

“That’s rather forward.”

“You’re an attractive man, Dorian,” Zet responded unabashedly. “My thinking so doesn’t have to amount to anything if you don’t want it to. I’d just rather you know so that there’s no confusion: I _am_ flirting with you.”

“In my experience flirting’s done with a bit more subtly.” 

“Not my thing.”

“I see that.”

A smile cracked over Zet’s mouth. Dorian looked like he needed a second, so he said, “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Which question was that?”

“What brings you to Redcliffe?”

Dorian stared at him, bewildered for a moment, and then a small smile began to slowly inch across his soft looking lips. It was in that moment that Zet decided he’d be fine if that smile was the only thing he got out of Dorian tonight. It’d be worth it. If they did nothing more than this, it’d be a good night. 

* * *

###  **Dorian**

He set his glass down in a hurry and covered his mouth to keep from spraying the male across from him in a wine colored mist. Struggling to breathe in through his nose, as to not inhale his drink, Dorian tried to catch the breath his surprised laugh had stolen from him. To his dismay, Ozet seemed either oblivious to his precarious breathing situation, or he was taking it as his cue to keep going. 

“So I’m running, fully naked, nothing but a tube sock keeping my dick from flopping in the wind, and what feels like the full force of the ACG on my heels…” 

Ozet was lounging in his seat, one muscular arm draped on the back of his booth, the other on the table between them, lifting away from his glass every now and again to help narrate his story. He was massive, a mountain in a bar booth. His flannel shirt stretched taut over bulging biceps that looked one subconscious flex away from tearing at the seams. Looking as relaxed as a sunbathing lion, his easy going demeanor was contagious. When he turned those piercing wisteria eyes onto him, full lips curved into a winsome half smile, it was easy to forget the somewhat crowded bar; better yet, the entire world. Especially when his hand occasionally traversed over the table to brush calloused fingers over his knuckles, sometimes to ensure Dorian’s gaze was on him --as if anything in the homely dive bar could compete with him for his attention-- or just because. 

Earlier, when they’d first entered the bar, Dorian had gotten the impression that Ozet was a physical person by how readily he’d touched him with a guiding hand to the small of his back. Every touch and look and smile after that had forced him to reevaluate his perception of qunari. For ages now, he’d thought them a stoic people, disdainful and emotionless. None of which applied to him. Ozet had a magnetism about him, an undeniable charisma that wouldn't’ have rendered Dorian into a hapless, blushing dunce if he hadn’t been so forthright about his attraction to him. 

Dorian had had lovers, had enjoyed his fair share of casual, sometimes even anonyous sex. But typically there was a dance to it, a flirtatious repartee of innuendo and double entendre that alluded to the question of _‘is this happening?’_ Ozet crushed the possibility of misunderstanding like a bug under his boot. He’d stated openly and honestly exactly what he was willing to let the night turn into, and Dorian had expected the glaring honesty to diminish the romance, but it hadn’t. 

Without the questions of: ‘ _does he find me attractive? What will I do if he does? Has he been with a man? What if I’m reading him all wrong?_ ’ all Dorian was left with was the decision of how and where they parted ways. As new acquaintances who’ve shared a few laughs over a couple of drinks, or something else, something more.

More and more he found himself replying to Ozet’s touches in kind. A brush over scarred knuckles to ask the origin of any one of the jagged, silvery lines, a bump of his loafer against his boot that turned into an exploratory brush of his toe along the curve of Ozet’s jean clad calf, and that moment of heart stopping tension that had coiled tight between them when Dorian had reached over to thumb away the eyelash Ozet had failed to wipe off on his own. They stared at each other, violet eyes locked to grey, and Dorian had been all too aware of his own heartbeat as the seconds ticked off into infinity, only to be broken by the arrival of bar food meant to sop up the several glasses they downed already.

Now Dorian caught himself looking at Ozet’s hands, mouth, wide barrelled chest and… fantasizing. It was all he could think about, what a night with him would be like. He knew in his gut that he’d enjoy the experience, everything in Ozet’s demeanor reinforced that certainty. It was whether or not he _should_ that made him pull back, second guess himself and his sanity. Livia was either avoiding him or worse, Felix had conscripted him into uncovering a possibly imagined conspiracy about his father, and Dorian had his own Daddy Issues he’d come to Ferelden hoping to sort through. Was now really the time for, well, _this_?

He didn’t know, but what happened next, if anything at all, was his choice. Knowing that made him feel strangely powerful. Ozet was strong, impressive, likely able to intimidate anyone into doing just about anything. And yet he’d freely and happily forfeited the power of choice to him. It felt like a silly thing to be emboldened by, but Dorian couldn’t deny how effectively it did exactly that. 

He swallowed hard and thumped his chest, coughing up the laugh that had almost filled his lungs with wine. “How does this comedy of errors get _worse_?” he demanded between laughs and coughs as he dabbed at the moisture spilling from his eyes. 

Ozet made a _just-you-wait_ wink, grinning around his own amusement, and recalled, “I sprint through the trees and straight into this Dalish caravan. They’re in the middle of some kind of traditional equinox celebration or something -- I don’t know what it was exactly, I wasn’t sticking around to ask. Anyway, there’s a huge bonfire with elves dancing around it, drums are beating, people are chanting, and I’m tearing through the heart of it all, full speed ahead, with nothing but a sock keeping things rated PG-13. I don’t stop. Just keep bookin’ it and, before the elves can figure out what the fuck to do about the seven foot tall vashoth that just flew through their party like a bat outta hell, in comes the city guards.”

“Oh no.”

“Yeah,” Ozet nodded emphatically. “Exactly. Instant confrontation. The elves are up in arms about the authorities oppressing their right to religious gatherings and crashing their sacred holiday, or whatever. And the guards are thrown for a fuckin’ loop. Do they go after me, or do they persecute the innocent elves that were neither hurting nor bothering anyone?”

“A conundrum.”

“Right? How do you decide?”

“Well, don’t leave us wanting.”

“Trust me, darlin’, I’ve never gotten that complaint.” Ozet winked, grinning as Dorian shook his head at the shameless flirting. He licked the simper from his supple lips. His thick arm on the back of the booth folded at the elbow to run a hand along the curve of his horn, then to smooth his toppling silver hair. When he dropped his arm again he decided to answer. “While the guards and elves were yelling at each other, I duck into one of their trailer-aravel-whatevers and walk into a wall of smoke. It’s incense, kush, Maker knows what else, and fuck whatever’s happening out there because this -- _this--_ is where the party’s at. There’s nothing but bodies, all of them more naked than me, writhing to music like this thrashing, multi-limbed _thing_.”

Dorian cocked an eyebrow. “An orgy?”

His responding grin was wolfish. “An orgy,” he confirmed casually lifting his glass to his mouth for a drink. 

“What did you do?”

“What any self respecting person would do after careening, ass over tea kettle, into an elven orgy…” he paused, simper expanding, devilish and daring. “I joined. Stayed with them for a while, too. A few days at least. Four, I think. Maybe five.”

“What happened to the guards?”

Silver hair shifted with his head shake. “No clue,” said Ozet. “The elves wouldn’t let them search their camp. I guess they decided I wasn’t worth the headlining news about guard brutality against minority groups. The party went on and I spent the next few days in a haze of psychadelics and sex, until I wake up one day and they’re gone. The whole caravan. Nothing left of them but put out campfires, smoke, and tire tracks. They left me lying in the dirt, naked save for my tube sock and a quilted blanket; the only proof I have that I didn’t dream up the whole thing.”

Blinking hard, all Dorian could say was an incredulous, breathless, “Wow.” he made an impressed face before sipping his wine. Swallowing hard to force the cheap blend down, he shook his head and murmured, “I thought I’d had an adventurous youth, but I don’t think I have any stories that can compete with that. ‘ _Raiding my father’s wine cellar’_ doesn’t quite hold up against ‘ _week long elven orgy’_.”

“Business week,” he conceded, chuckling.

Dorian lifted agreeing eyebrows. “If your _business_ is sex work, then you couldn’t be more right.”

“It’s not, unfortunately. I’m more of a hobbiest than a professional.”

He stopped himself from squirming under the heat of Ozet’s gaze. Absently, he twisted the stem of his wine glass between his fingers, he watched the last bit of wine spin about the cup, a restrained smirk trying for his lips while he murmured, “You know what they say,” he glanced up at him then, meeting the fire in Ozet’s violet gaze and letting it overwhelm him. “When you do what you love you don’t work a day in your life.”

Ozet laughed and the way he felt it in his own chest sent chills down his spine. “It almost sounds like you’re encouraging my dabbling in the sex industry.”

He bit the inside of his lip and released it after a contemplative nibble. Dorian’s shoulders lifted, nonchalant. “Seems like something you’d be good at,” he observed, eyes still held prisoner by Ozet’s intense, smouldering gaze. 

“Care to find out?”

Despite the fire behind his hooded eyes, there was no pressure to the question. Ozet wasn’t calling is bluff, or forcing his hand. It was a reminder of an offer already made, a fork in the road only Dorian could choose to navigate. He felt sure that if he said ‘ _no, not interested_ ,’ Ozet wouldn’t so much as pout, and that made them the last words he ever wanted to say. Because they’d be a lie, and he was running out of excuses not to end the night here. 

His heart was beating hard, the same anxious thrash he felt when on the verge of discovering something new. The wine glass twisted and twisted as his distractedly moving fingers continued to spin the stem while he considered the hulking man opposite him. What would it hurt, to give into this temptation? It was one night. He knew by Ozet’s leathers that he wasn’t from Redcliffe, and by his own admission he and his band of ne'er-do-wells were drifters. They’d never see each other again after tonight. So why not make the most of it?

The glass stopped spinning and his heart beat faster. “Very well then,” he said, surprised by the certainty in his voice. Anticipation had his stomach in a coil, his rib cage barely able to contain all the fluttering going on inside. This wasn’t something he did often, almost never with strangers he’d only just met, but for some reason he couldn’t name, he trusted him. Considering the time they’d already spent together he’d seen enough to guess that Ozet was a generous and enthusiastic lover and, if he was wrong in that assumption, it was just one night. May as well sate his curiosity, along with all the other things Ozet aroused in him. 

He picked up his glass, raised it to his lips, and tossed back the remaining wine. When he set the cup down again it was with the question, “My hotel or yours?”

Ozet’s smile was a slowly crawling slither that eased unhurriedly over his full lips. “If we only get one night together I’d rather not spend it worried about when they changed the sheets last at the roadside inn I’m staying at.”

He made a thoughtful face in response, wondering, “ _s_ that something you’d worry about?”

“No,” he replied, smile widening. “But if you care about shit like online reviews I think you’d be more comfortable in your bed.”

“So would you by the sound of it.”

“And, just like that, my true intentions are revealed,” murmured Ozet, still smirking as he caught their server’s attention and gestured for the bill. When she nodded an acknowledgement, he returned the full, heated weight of his gaze onto him. “You ever been on a motorcycle?”

His heart stumbled against his ribs and his stomach did a flip. “I can’t say I have.”

“It’ll be a night of firsts for you. How exciting.” He nodded in wordless thanks when their server dropped off the check and started to clear away their dishes.

Once she was well out of earshot, Dorian said, “I’ve been with men before.”

“Are you trying to make me jealous?” Ozet winked. He leaned to the side and removed his wallet from his pocket. Plucking some bills from the fold, he clarified, “Men, sure, but never me.”

The grin that rushed over his mouth came too quickly, too powerfully, for him to stop it from surfacing. “My, such arrogance. I’m not sure that I approve.”

Grinning, Ozet tucked the cash into the billfold. Before he could start to wriggle his huge body out from the booth, he muttered a reassuring, “You will.” The table rattled with the shuffle of his legs and lurched when he made to stand. “What’s the ETA on that helivac I was promised?”

Already standing, Dorian scooted the table back into place once the imposing qunari was free from his confines. “You managed without it, and with minimal property damage. A win by all accounts.”

Now that they were standing, he was immediately reminded of their size differences. Dorian had to angle his head back to look Ozet in the eyes and catch the meaningful smile hinting at his lips. Lips he was increasingly curious to feel on his. Would Ozet’s kisses be as crushing as his hulking figure suggested, or would the gentle consideration he’d demonstrated all evening persist? Which would he prefer?

Now that the decision was made, the tab was paid, and they were on their way out of the dive, Dorian could address the impatient part of him that ached too badly with curiosity to care for gentleness. They’d flirted and teased, and something touch starved in him wanted to get drunk off of Ozet’s attention. Sloppy drunk. One night stand drunk. If there weren’t so many eyes on them he’d have grabbed him by his leathers and dragged his pointed ear down to his mouth to whisper as much just to see what Ozet would do. 

Instead, he allowed himself to be led from the _Gull and Lantern_ ’s warm interior, back into the crisp night outside. He expected their walk back to be the same as the trek over, but Ozet wrapped one heavy arm around his shoulders and tucked him into his side, immediately combatting the late night chill with an aura of heat that radiated off of Ozet like an actual fire burned under the surface. His arm stayed there, his body a shield against the cold, and it took a great deal of restraint to keep from burying his face in Ozet’s chest and inhaling the smoky, sandalwood scent that clung to him more fiercely than the heat that pushed off. Until that moment he’d never cared for the scent of cigarette smoke, but now… now he didn’t mind it so much. 

It wasn’t a long walk to Ozet’s motorcycle, which had been parked near the gallery. It was one of the last left in what had been a tidy row of bikes. A helmet was produced from the saddlebag and handed to him. Dorian stared down at it contemplatively, his insides a riot of inexplicable nerves and excitement. Without looking up from the matte black helmet between his hands, his lips parted to say something clever, but there was a vulnerability to the observation he hadn’t even meant to make. 

“We haven’t so much as kissed yet.”

A finger tucked under his chin and gently urged his face up. Ozet was standing so close to him that the heat coming off of him chased away the cold. Without dropping his hand from Dorian’s face, he brushed the calloused pad of his thumb over his bottom lip in a low, methodical sweep. Dark, sensual shadows were playing in his hooded amethyst gaze. There was no mistaking the desire in his gaze for anything else. 

“Don’t think for a second that it’s because I don’t want to,” he rumbled in that resonant, smooth baritone, so full bodied and sonorous that Dorian felt the bass of it in his chest. Or maybe that was just his skipping heartbeat. Ozet was too focused on Dorian’s mouth to notice the effects his voice in that pitch were having on him. Still staring at the slow trace of his thumb across Dorian’s lips, he confessed, “I just know what once I kiss you I won’t want to stop and, if you change your mind about me, I’d rather leave knowing you made it back safely instead of leaving you to find your own way home.”

Dorian didn’t know how to respond. He didn’t know how to react beyond blinking up at him, dumbstruck. It was an oddly thoughtful and romantic sentiment he rarely experienced with hookups and one night stands. Staring up at Ozet he actually couldn’t name a single time anyone had ever come close. 

Instead of trying to string together a response, Dorian opened his mouth and caught Ozet’s thumb between his teeth. He held his gaze, watched the shadows within grow darker, deeper, as his tongue twirled and flicked around his thumb before he sucked it lightly. 

Pupils so dilated his irises were reduced to thin violet rings, Ozet’s nostrils flared as he intently watched Dorian’s lips close around his finger. When he gave his thumb a final lick and suck before releasing it, Ozet skated the pad of his finger over Dorian’s lip again, moistening it in the process. “Unless you’d like our first round to be up against the wall in an alley, you should put on that helmet so we can get out of here,” he growled then dropped his hand from his mouth, not so much as stepping back or looking away as he waited for him to decide their next move. 

He’d do it, too. Fuck Dorian into the brick wall if that was what he wanted. All he had to do was say the word, make a move, and he wouldn’t have to wait until they were in his hotel room to begin their exploration of each other. 

It was the fear of getting caught in such an uncompromising position that made Dorian lift the helmet from between them and shove it onto his head. If word got back to his father… there was exhibitionism and then there were things he’d rather never have on his public record, for fear of what Halward Pavus might think, or do, or say. 

Dorian knew what he was, felt no shame in it, but some things were best done behind closed doors. 

Before he could struggle with the straps, Ozet loosened them to fit then snapped them into place under his chin. His smile was both impish and approving, and he looked like he was about to lean down to either whisper something or kiss him, but he shook his head and stepped away from Dorian instead. “Come on, before you find more ways to test my self control.” He turned toward the massive piece of machinery and straddled his motorcycle. 

It came alive with a mechanical purr and Ozet pushed up the kickstand with the heel of his boot before patting the space behind him, grinning. “Hop on, handsome,” he said over the working engine, his grip refastening on the handlebar as he waited for Dorian to claim his seat. 

He hesitated for a breath, a single moment where logic and rationale waged war against desire. This was foolish. Getting onto the back of a stranger’s motorcycle was an excellent way to get himself killed. Either in the likely event of an accident, or the less likely but not impossible --nor even improbable-- event of Ozet being a charming yet murderous serial killer. What person in their right mind invited someone they didn’t know, couldn’t genuinely trust, back to their hotel room for sex?  
‘ _A lot of people_ ,’ answered the voice in the back of his mind. He approached the motorcycle and placed a hand on Ozet’s shoulder before swinging his leg over the seat. Maybe it was foolish, but he _did_ trust Ozet. Dorian could hide from a great many things, but he wasn’t going to keep letting life happen without him. It was one night. He was determined to experience everything it had to offer. 

Once he was settled behind Ozet, he lifted his shoes onto the pegs then moved his hands from his shoulders to wrap his arms around his narrow waist. When Ozet glanced over his shoulder back at him, he nodded a wordless confirmation to his silent question. He was ready. 

Except for he wasn’t. A surprised sound came out of him when Ozet pushed off and the motorcycle lurched forward, engine roaring as he twisted his grip and they launched into the flow of the somewhat sparse traffic that passed through downtown Redcliffe. His arms tightened around Ozet’s middle and Dorian barely managed to keep from squeezing his eyes shut and pressing his brow to Ozet’s muscular back. 

Once they were moving he was glad he hadn’t. The bracing wind that whipped against them was worse now that they were moving in earnest. In an odd way, it was refreshing, exhilarating. Dorian watched the night pass them in a blurr and struggled to name a time he’d felt anywhere near as free as he did now. He understands now why it was the way Ozet preferred to travel. On the back of his roaring beast of a motorcycle they were flying. And so long as the road stretched on in front of them, they could keep flying into forever. 

It was a good thing his hotel was nearly on the other side of town. It gave Dorian abundant time to take advantage of his seat behind Ozet and the proximity it allowed him. As the qunari wove them around cars and sailed down street light lit roads, Dorian’s hands explored. He felt over Ozet’s expansive chest, along his torso. They slid under his leather vest, touching him fondly, wishing they were there already so that he could get the massive male out of his clothes. 

It didn’t take long for him to get comfortable with the physical affections his position allowed him to get away with. In fact, he’d initiated the intimate touches almost immediately. He pressed his lips to Ozet’s shoulder, buried his nose in his back, inhaling deep pulls of leather mixed with cologne, motor oil, cigarette smoke. At stop signs and traffic lights he moved his hands to Ozet’s legs, rubbing languid strokes up and down what he could reach of his thighs as he nuzzled his neck, nibbled his ear, murmured his appreciation of the strong body bracketed by his thighs. Only to grin devilishly when all Ozet could do in reply was reach back, grab hold of his thigh, and twist his torso just enough to look back at him with fire burning in his gaze. 

Fifteen minutes may as well have been infinite. Anticipation made the ride feel forever long. But, eventually, they arrived at his hotel. Ozet quickly found a place to park his bike and, when he switched off the ignition, the silence that rushed in was deafening. His legs were shaky when he dismounted and his fingers felt weak as he unclasped the straps to remove the helmet. Holding it out to return to Ozet, he combed life back into his hair, hoping his fingers and the pre-existing pommade would be enough to style it back into place. 

Ozet’s movements were slow as he also rose from his motorcycle. He took his helmet from his outstretched hand, and returned it to his saddlebag. Once it was put away, he turned his gaze onto Dorian and the heat in it pinned him into place. The flick of his focus dropping to Dorian’s mouth was the only warning he got before the space between them was gone and his face was between Ozet’s hands. 

A sharp breath was all he could manage before Ozet’s mouth was on his and every thought left his mind. Just evaporated. Gone like fog under the noon sun. The pressure of Ozet’s lips on his was hungry, aching, but not as fiercely demanding as Dorian had expected it might be. The desire was there, overwhelming and intoxicating as Ozet’s tongue skated along the seam of his mouth, requesting entry. But as Dorian welcomed him into his mouth with a groan, he could also sense his restraint. Ozet angled his head further back, drank from his mouth like he’d gone days, weeks, _longer_ , without a drop of water, and he was still giving him the chance to say no, to push him away and change his mind. 

None of which he wanted to do. All of which sounded so abhorrent to him that he fisted the leathers of Ozet’s lapels and pulled himself closer to the larger man until he was flush against him. Ozet’s hands dropped away from his face to grab hold of his waist and pull him in that much tighter. His heat, his touch, the sheer size of him blocked out the night. He eclipsed every other thought as his restraint frayed the longer they kissed, the more they touched, and with every exploring plunge, flick, and twirl of their dancing tongues. 

Ozet crushed him to him. Arms as thick as beer kegs wrapped around him, undecided between holding him so close Dorian thought he might disappear into his chest, and touching him as much as he could. With their jagged breaths and frantic touches, he hadn’t realized they’d been moving until Ozet sat on his bike’s seat and tugged Dorian to stand between his legs, not daring to break their kiss for a second. Once he was settled Dorian knew he was ruined. There was no turning back now, not when massive hands glided down his body and grabbed a hold of his ass, using his grip to draw him nearer until all he could think about was that denim covered hardness he kept brushing against, and how badly he wanted to feel the length of it, how badly he wanted to just climb into Ozet’s lap for a ride of a different kind. 

When their lips parted it was because Ozet had lifted one of his hands from his ass to grab him by the jaw and gently force his face to the side as he peppered kisses along the line of his jaw to his neck. Once there, Ozet’s lips parted and his teeth bit into hyper-sensitive flesh, and Dorian moaned loudly at the sting. He whimpered a shuddering sound at the soothing lick that followed. Fingers dug into the leather on Ozet’s back. He fisted and tugged at his soft silver hair. It was too much and he couldn’t decide if he wanted to push him away or pull him closer, and his indecision left him squirming and groaning, breathless as his body burned so hot he might combust right where he stood. 

It was his _need_ to climb onto Ozet’s lap and just let him have his way with him right there, out in the open, in the middle of the parking lot, that made him groan a raspy, “Come inside.”

Ozet’s conquest of his neck didn’t slow or stop, and Dorian’s own hard cock was pushing so demandingly against his zipper that he knew his inhibitions couldn’t survive the inferno much longer. He tried again, pulling Ozet away from his neck by the fingers still tangled in his hair. “Come inside with me. Please.” He fought for each breath, could hardly hear himself over his heartbeat. “I want you, Ozet. Don’t make me beg.”

Pupils blown wide, lips swollen and ruddy, Ozet looked dishevelled and wild, beastly as he leered up at him with a predator’s smirk. “I’ll make you beg, Dorian,” he swore on a growl. “But you’ll be naked and sprawled out in front of me when I do it.” He pushed back onto his feet and stood as tall and wide as an oak tree, and a thousand times more indomitable. 

Yet all Dorian could think about was climbing him. He grinned right back at him. “Then we shouldn’t waste any time.” Dorian took a step away from Ozet, his hands falling back to his sides as he backed out of reach. “Because I’d like to see you try.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooph. This one got away from me. Sorry about the length. Please remember to toss a Kudos to your writer, oh Archive of plenty...


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